


Sub Cubare

by amjacob



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Incubus Dean, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Post Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Post Episode: s07e22 Chosen, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sibling Incest, Succubi & Incubi, Threesome - F/M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amjacob/pseuds/amjacob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The chick’s eyes were illuminating the alley and she had friggin' horns. And her teeth…she had fangs like a snake. His shout was more shock than pain, though there was certainly that. And outrage. And an edge of hysteria. Under normal conditions, Dean Winchester did not do hysterics, but when an honest-to-god sex demon came a hand’s breadth from biting off his most precious possession, he figured he was entitled."</p><p>A plotty succubus-made-them-do-it fic, with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean pulled the Impala around the side of the brick building, letting the engine idle while the last strains of Led Zeppelin’s Bring It On Home faded into tape hiss. The neon lights outside the passenger’s side window proclaimed _XXX_ and _Live Nude Girls_ , and to the driver’s side sat an ugly, squat building with a painted sign and a single bulb illuminating it.  
  
Dean had first visited this particular establishment about five years ago while passing though Michigan after a salt and burn in upstate New York and before a pooka in Wisconsin. It was a real bar, a man’s bar, in the tradition of the saloons of the Old West., and goddamn if he didn't love a good Western. Though the sign outside was poorly lit, and the paint was chipping here and there, it was still legible if he squinted. _The_ _Owl’s Roost Pub_.  
  
There were no fancy flat panels inside flashing the latest sports scores in blinding LED glory; the clientele here made their own entertainment. Full contact poker, for example. Dean had thought that one was a hoot. Of course he hadn’t been the dude on the floor nursing a shallow scalp wound and a wrist that was well on its way to a sick shade of greenish-purple. The older man had looked at Dean for a good minute, then looked at his wrist and laughed. He’d gotten to his feet, slapped Dean on the shoulder and paid the hunter what he’d swindled fair and square. Dean had been back a few times since then, hustled some pool, bet on darts – he’d always come away better off then he’d gone in, and best of all he’d enjoyed himself and the competitive atmosphere that was just his kind of rough around the edges.  
  
He and Sam had just finished taking care of the haunting in an office building, where that dick of an angel had stolen his memories and made him drive a Prius. He’d been trying to make it up to his baby ever since. They were between jobs, and Dean needed some time by himself to unwind. When he had tried halfheartedly to persuade his brother to join him for a few beers, Sam had scrunched up his face at Dean and said he’d wait in the room and surf the web for any new cases. His little brother was all about the job these days. That was just peachy with Dean, he needed the job too.  But at least he’d not been the one to inherit dad’s obsessive streak. He’d let Sam burn off some restless energy and do the same in his own way. A few months out of the hellfire, he had a lot of catching up on living yet to do. Smiling brightly, he slipped the gearshift into park; tonight was his, and Dean was dead set on enjoying himself.  
  
As soon as he stepped inside the bar, the warmth of the atmosphere thawed most of the chill around his heart, but when he saw the long haired, long legged brunette waiting tables over in the corner, he became almost unbearably hot from the inside out. A bombshell of a waitress giving him a casual blowjob in the back alley would be just what he needed to take the edge off. It was a pleasant fantasy, like letters to _Penthouse_ or _Busty Asian Beauties_. He never, not ever, in a million years thought she might take him up on it. When she looked up directly into his eyes as if she’d known he was there and smiled a secret, knowing smile, he almost started to believe that a higher power (Castiel, or God, or hell, maybe Anna, whatever she’d become) was watching out for him. His body was on fire and his cock was heavy and full and aching, jammed in his pants where there very suddenly wasn’t nearly enough room.  
  
Glancing around the room, Dean made sure no other eyes were on him as he carefully adjusted his jeans. There were five men at the bar, not counting the grizzled bartender with a face like shoe leather. One of those was underage if Dean were any judge. The pool table entertained a group of four guys, loud and drunk and totally involved with their game. The three girls in the corner looked out of place until he saw their motorcycle leathers. Dean cataloged everyone and filed the information in the back of his brain along with potential weapons and exit scenarios. He was nothing if not his father’s son, damn it all. Even when he was horny as hell.  
  
Taking a seat that put his back to the wall and facing the doorway at an empty table for two from force of habit, Dean smiled back at the waitress, his slow molasses smile that always seemed to work for him. He stretched his arms out behind him, cracking his back in an attempt to relieve the tension that knotted between his shoulder blades. Doing so caused his dark gray (it had been black once, he thought, before Sam’s mishap with the bleach…friggin’ last time he let Poindexter near his laundry) t-shirt to ride up, and he was pretty sure the waitress caught a good look at the curling hairs trailing to the waistband of his jeans before his arms settled back on the table.  
  
She was taking her time getting the orders of everyone else not seated at the bar, which admittedly wasn’t that many on a Wednesday night. At least he thought it was Wednesday. Hell, it could as easily have been Thursday for all he knew after spending the last ten hours on the road. He never truly relaxed, not with an ex-marine dad and a little brother, and, oh yeah, not to mention that sojourn in Hell that left him with real and waking nightmares, but he made a good effort of it. He was even taken a bit off guard when the waitress came up beside him and ran bright red fingernails across his shoulder blades.  
  
“I’m Mara, what’s your poison, Sugar?” she asked, voice low and dripping with double and triple meanings.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” he grinned, mouth quirking up to show white teeth and a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. “What’s on the menu, Sweetheart?”  
  
“I think this is the part where you're hoping I say “me” and we head out back for some nighttime delight. Now I really shouldn’t do that, but….” She winked as she drawled out the words, filled with a devilish disregard for propriety, with the promise of a quick lay that would ease some tension for both of them. “I’m a poster child for breaking the rules, Tiger. I’m going to put these drink orders in. Meet me out back in five,” she purred. Dean's eyes were glued to her impossibly short skirt as she walked away, and if anything could have ever made him pray, it was that a strong breeze would blow though the bar at that moment and give him a view of the panties he was ninety-nine percent sure she _wasn’t_ wearing. He groaned as he shifted to stand up, his jeans brushing roughly against his erection. Fuck. It had been a long time since he’d been to this point, where he was so hard it hurt. Even Anna’s one-last-hurrah sex hadn’t got him this desperate.  
  
Dean moved gingerly though the bar toward the rear entrance, taking care to avoid any additional contact. The pleasure-pain was turning him on even more, and that was a secret he was keeping to himself, thank you very much. The other patrons ignored him as he pushed the back door open, and for that he was grateful.  The night air was cool, but the fire was inside Dean and he hardly felt the chill. The door slammed shut behind him as he nearly collapsed against the brick wall, eyes rolled up in his head and eyelids drooping, and holy shit on a stick he was inches away from taking himself in his hand and jerking off. Right. Fucking. There.  
  
Dean was so focused on getting himself under control that he didn’t hear the door open again beside him. The chick, Mara, surprised the hell out of him. When he felt a tugging on his pants, his eyes returned to their normal resting place, and she was kneeling in front of him with her deft hands on his zipper. Her clever fingers slid his pants down to his knees and worked inside his boxers to grasp his cock firmly around the base. An electric shock ran though Dean’s body at her touch and the last bit of blood that wasn’t absolutely required to run his brain packed up and shagged ass to his dick. He had to admit he was impressed with himself. If he were any harder, he’d be a fucking statue.  
  
“Oh, God,” he groaned.  
  
“Not quite, baby,” she smiled, lips full and as bright ruby as fresh blood. The thought that he’d soon have those plump lips around his cock made Dean shudder.  
  
The brunette worked him free of his confining boxers and the temperature difference registered for about half a second before a hot wetness engulfed him. Dean considered setting up a temple in honor of her mouth. He’d had many blowjobs before, but this was easily in the top three of all time and she hadn’t really even gotten going yet. The sensation of her tongue against the veins of his cock was so powerful he had to lock his knees to prevent dropping to the pavement. Her hand moved along his length in perfect time with her mouth, working a slow rhythm that made his body tight with desperate need.  
  
Later, all he could say was he wasn’t nearly as careful as he should have been. He’d been on the road too long without physical companionship, and he was so horny he hadn’t realized the waitress wasn’t human. Hell, maybe she mind-whammied him too; he wouldn't put it past that bitch. Either way, it wasn’t until she had him on the brink of orgasm that he felt needle sharp teeth on his cock. The chick’s eyes were illuminating the alley and she had fucking horns. And her teeth…she had fangs like a snake. His shout was more shock than pain, though there was certainly that. And outrage. And an edge of hysteria. Under normal conditions, Dean Winchester did not do hysterics, but when an honest-to-god sex demon came a hand’s breadth from biting off his most precious possession, he figured he was entitled. Worst of all, he still desperately needed to come.  
  
“What the fuck!” he raged, every instinct telling him to destroy this monster freak, great ass or no.  
  
He shoved the creature away from him with all the force panicked adrenaline could summon and bent down to retrieve his boot knife.  By the time he had it in his hands the bitch was gone and Dean’s knees were weak, barely able to support his own weight. Fuck! Whatever she’d done with her teeth, it worked fast. Fearfully, he checked on Dean Junior. The puncture wounds were small, but already red and swollen with a thin trail of blood (and…was that venom?) weeping from each. The clear discharge leaking from the puncture wounds definitely looked like snake venom he thought as he lost muscle control and slumped against the brick unable to move.  Well, this seriously sucked. Dean Winchester, killed by a blowjob.  
  
He’d have snorted if he could, knowing Sam wouldn’t hesitate to write that on his tombstone, but as it was he was having serious trouble just drawing his next breath. It was like his body was paralyzed, like that locked-in syndrome; his brain was thinking a mile a minute but his muscles wouldn’t respond. Sam had always told him his hormones would get the better of him someday. If he survived this, he was seriously never going to give that kid the satisfaction of saying I told you so, even if that meant kicking the crap out of his brother to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bobby?” Sam answered, midway through the first ring. “Yeah, he’s okay.” Sam’s eyes kept glancing to him, then away. It was making Dean dizzy. The one-sided conversation continued, Bobby apparently filling his brother in on how to reach one of his contacts. “Yeah. Cleveland? What’s the address?” Sam grabbed a sheet of paper from the nightstand and scribbled something on it. “Okay, got it Bobby, thanks.” Sam reached the door, duffel bag slung over a broad shoulder, before he hit the end button on his cell, his freakishly long legs devouring the distance like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
> 
> “Grab your shit Dean, we’re going to Ohio. And for God’s sake put a damn shirt on,” Sam called.

It was probably more of an issue getting Dean into the car than it had been for Sam to track him down. When three o’clock had rolled around and his brother still hadn’t made it home, Sam had panicked. He’d called both hospices in the area and gone through a dozen aliases before deciding to check the bars themselves. Dean had the car, but it took Sam under a minute to hot-wire a late model Buick in the parking lot. There weren’t too many bars in Sturgis, Michigan; it was mostly corn and cattle and good old fashioned eateries that had some of the best pie in the country (so Dean had told him over and over and over…and over). Sam found the Impala at the third bar he visited, across the street from a gentleman’s club.  
  
Finding his brother hadn’t been difficult; he hadn’t even needed to enable the GPS in Dean’s phone. On the other hand six odd foot of dead weight wasn’t easy to maneuver under the best of circumstances, and Sam had been freaking out over finding Dean out of it in a back alley of the bad area of town. Coincidentally, it was half a block from the good side of town, but that was how it was in a town this size. He’d checked his brother’s vitals, pulse steady, breathing normal, and thank God for that. He really, _really_ didn’t want to know why Dean’s pants were down around his knees. Sam just blushed and pulled them up as best he could, doing his best not to touch anything he didn’t absolutely have to.  It wasn't like he'd never seen his brother naked before; it just always made him feel...awkward.  
  
Sam leaned down, getting an arm behind Dean’s knees and another around his back, and lifted with his knees. Dean really needed to lay off the burgers, the fucker was _heavy_. Dean's dead weight was awkward as hell to maneuver, but Sam was able to get his unresponsive brother into the back seat of the Impala mostly without incident (and if Dean had a headache and a small lump on the side of his skull in the morning, Sam would feign ignorance). He drove them both back to the motel, leaving the borrowed Buick in the bar's parking lot for the police to recover.  
  
When they’d arrived back at the hotel, he was really tempted to just let Dean sleep it off in the car, but he figured he owed his brother for the time he’d come to get Sam from Wendy Carver’s sweet sixteen party. The night he learned he had a low tolerance for alcohol. Dean hadn’t even really complained very much when Sam started insisting how much he really loved him, man. He also kind of owed Dean for never bringing that night up again. So Sam carried his brother’s dead weight inside and laid him down on the mattress of the bed nearest to the bathroom. He even pulled the sheet and comforter over Dean. His brother slept for the rest of the night and most of the next morning.  
____  
  
Dean stirred, and the sound of broken mattress springs creaking woke Sam from his light doze. “Dean,” Sam’s voice sounded jagged and wrecked. “Are you all right man?”  
  
Dean groaned, pulling an arm up over his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun entering from the western exposure.  His dick was hard, but he wasn't about to reach for it with Sam watching him. “Aside from some demonic psycho chick taking a bite out of me, yeah Sam, I’m swell.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about, dude?”  
  
“Nothing Sammy, just...just listen okay? If I start acting, I don’t’ know, whatever. Just…if I’m not… _me_ anymore, I need you to stop me, kill me if you have to.” His voice cracked and Dean swallowed around the knot of fear in his throat. He hated asking, hated being put in a position where he had to ask it, but he refused to become something he hunted. He could see the obstinate tension building in the lines of his brother’s shoulders, the working of his jaw. “Please, Sam!”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So you wanted me to promise to off you if you go dark side, but you can’t afford me the same goddamn courtesy? Fuck you.” Dean turned his back on his brother and looked around the hotel room he, or more accurately, Mr. John Bonham, had rented earlier last night. The magenta and pink tiger-striped wallpaper in this place was truly singular, even when taken in context with all the rest of the shitty pay-by-the-hour no-tell motels they frequented. Dean wondered if the beds had Magic Fingers. His cock pulsed. This wasn’t morning wood either. He knew he’d promised himself he wouldn’t give his brother the opportunity for I told you so, but this was not normal. What they knew about sex demons Dean could fit in a siren shaped thimble, but he was pretty sure this was outside of standard operating procedures; they usually just wanted to feed. He should be exhausted, but instead he was wired.  And still really freaking horny.  
  
“Dean….” And Dean knew that voice. That exasperated voice that meant Sam was tired of Dean. Toughen up, soldier; take it like a man. On one hand it fascinated Dean how much like John Winchester his youngest son had turned out, but on the other he really didn't give a shit. He knew, _knew_ , that his little brother thought he was damaged goods, that going to Hell had irrevocably changed him. It didn’t help matters that in some respects (many respects) Sam wasn’t wrong, but still. Dad’s drill sergeant had a world of pain coming his way if Dean ever met the bastard.

 

Dean steeled himself and wished for once he could be _enough_ just as he was, and turned to face his brother. But instead of turning away from him like usual, Sam sniffed the air and took a step forward, and his face relaxed just a little. But it was like suddenly, he was _Sam_ again. For those ephemeral seconds, Dean had his brother back. His dick strained against his pants. It couldn’t last, of course, and Sam put on his mask of detached concern. “Look, we’ll find something,” Sam’s voice was the courteous, slightly detached tone he used on bereaved widows and terrified kids. “I mean, we don’t even know that there’s anything really even wrong yet. Tell me what happened.”  
  
“Dude, a succubus or something bit my dick,” Dean snapped, incredulous. “I’m willing to go out on a limb and say there’s something pretty friggin’ wrong with that.”  
  
In other circumstances Dean was sure Sammy’d be laughing his ass off about his situation. Hell, when this panned out okay, they’d probably have a chuckle about it over some beers. Instead Sam’s chiseled jaw worked as he regarded Dean appraisingly. “We don’t know it’s a succubus, but I’ll call Bobby. It’ll be okay, man.” Sam reached out and clasped his brother’s shoulder, physically reminding Dean that he was there, no matter what happened.  
  
“Yeah, good. Good.” Dean’s throat had gone dry without his permission. “I’ll uh…I gotta use the bathroom.” The heaviness in his balls had become an ache that he desperately needed to relieve. He was sure Sam couldn’t help but notice his erection as he bolted to the bathroom, but they were Winchesters and he said nothing. Thank friggin’ god.  
  
Dean just about slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and sagged against it. Sam had pulled Dean’s pants back up sometime after retrieving him from the alley, but he hadn’t fastened them. In other circumstances he might have been mortified, but it was like he couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. Dean reached down the front of his unzipped fly, stroking himself though the cotton of his boxers and rough denim. It was like the whole world was revolving around his cock and nothing else mattered. He was burning up with need. Dean pulled his jeans and boxers down his thighs with one hand while the other gripped the silky flesh of his cock and slowly jacked his dick in short, firm pulls. With every stroke, more and more blood seemed to rush to the organ, and Dean felt light headed.  
  
He thought about Sam finding him flagrantly exposed in the back of some seedy bar, and really, he should have been embarrassed or something. But he was just turned the fuck on. Dean’s fingers brushed the sensitive tip of his glans before resuming his hard strokes, and his body shuddered. With his free hand, he reached to fondle his balls. He’d never been a moaner, but god damn. His cock was sensitized like never before and he was just about biting though his cheek to keep from making slutty, needy noises. He was leaking precome and Dean took advantage of the lubricant, using it to coat his palm as it slid along his length, stroking faster as he neared his climax.  
  
When his orgasm came it was nearly apocalyptic, red and white lightning bolts danced behind his closed eyelids. Hot jets of come splashed over his hand, some of it landing on his chest, soaking into his shirt, and a drop even reaching his lips. Unthinkingly, his tongue snaked out to clean it away. Dean was still maddeningly hard and his cock was so over-sensitized that it hurt to touch. He’d come harder than he had in years, since he was fourteen and Jenny Stewart gave him his first blowjob behind the school, but it gave him no relief. If anything he was even worse off than before. Whatever that freaky bitch had done to him, he had to find a way to end it. He loved sex as much as the next guy, but he’d go nuts if his dick stayed this way forever. Literally insane, kill your brother, rape your dog bonkers.  
  
Dean hadn’t even realized his hand had started moving again.  
__  
  
The white noise of the television wasn’t able to distract him, nor was his laptop, currently open to a web page discussing succubi. He’d even spent a half hour paging though Dad’s journal, searching for any mention of a situation similar to Dean’s. Sam watched the bathroom door wearily. He could pretend all he wanted, but he knew what Dean was doing in there. He’d grown up with his brother’s open disregard for boundaries. When they were teenagers, Sam had often come awake to soft moans from the bed next to his, whether they came from Dean or the girl he’d brought back with him. He'd done his best to ignore the awkward, twitchy feeling he got whenever that happened.  He’d grown accustomed to the knowledge that Dean was a sexual creature, but he was not willing to accept that as literal truth now.  
  
Leaving Dean to it, Sam grabbed his newest cell phone (amazing what a little identity theft and a sale at Best Buy could get you) and stepped outside for some fresh air. He didn’t have many numbers in his address book; Bobby was speed dial three and he picked up on the first ring.  
  
“Singer.” Bobby’s voice was gruff and welcome.  
  
“Hey Bobby,” said Sam, relief a solid presence in his voice.  
  
“Sam? That you?”  
  
“Yeah. Look, the reason I’m calling is I think there’s something wrong with Dean. He was attacked last night, and we think it’s some kind of creature that feeds on um…” Sam’s voice trailed off. This was not a topic he was fully comfortable discussing with Bobby, or anyone for that matter.  
  
“Spit it out, boy.”  
  
“He thinks it was a sex demon, Bobby.”  
  
The other end of the line is silent for several seconds. Sam cautiously shifts the phone, holding it about four inches from his ear. As it turns out, that’s still far too close. “That stupid, stupid son of a bitch! What brand of foolish do you have to be to get that close to one of them? Damn idjit. I knew that boy would get himself into trouble one day with that goddamn skirt-chasing.”  
  
“Yeah, well. He locked himself in the bathroom about an hour ago, and I just didn’t know…well, I don’t think it’s helping.”  
  
“Look Sam, you have to get him to stop. Until we know exactly what kind of creature caused this, he could be doing himself more harm than good. Tell me everything he said to you, and everything he didn’t.”

\----

Dean felt feverish and strung out, and it was going on two hours now since he’d awoken in their hotel room with the hard-on that ate Manhattan. Jacking off had only made it worse. He’d come three times in the bathroom and was working his way to four, his hand and his dick raw and thoroughly coated with his own come when Sam’s knock on the door snapped him out of his urgent pumping.  
  
“Dean, you need to stop,” said the brunet matter-of-factly, the wood muffling his voice.  
  
The elder Winchester’s voice was broken and raw, and there was an edge of hysteria creeping in when he replied. “Why’s that, Sammy?”  
  
“I think it’s like poison ivy, man. The more you scratch it, the more it spreads.”  
  
“So you’re telling me I’ve got a demonic rash? It’s a lot worse than that, Sam!” A loud bang against the door and a sharp curse followed and Sam was pretty positive that was his brother’s head hitting the solid surface hard enough to raise a nice sized lump.

Sam wasn’t so sure a rash was an accurate analogy either – poison ivy had a known cause and treatment. Thankfully, Sam’s interruption had been enough to stop his brother before the blonde could try going for four orgasms in an hour. Dean wasn’t superhuman, and that kind of strain might just kill him, despite his claims of sexual superiority. He wasn’t ready quite yet to face Dean after the marathon session of autoeroticism, so he talked though the door, trying to ignore the smell of come wafting through the space between them. Winchesters made an art form of avoiding discussion of uncomfortable topics.

 

“Look, I know. I…I talked to Bobby. After he cussed you out for, and I paraphrase, ‘being all sorts of foolish, you damn idjit,’ he said he’d get back to us. He also said to let him know if there were any other uh…symptoms.”  
  
Dean sighed. “Was there anything in Dad’s journal?”  
  
“Lots,” answered the younger. “Nothing concrete. I found a reference to an old unsolved case from the sixties where a man died from exhaustion. Dad had the entry filed under possible succubus attacks, but it could have been another kind of creature. Anyway, the guy's neighbors reported that he’d locked himself in the house and they heard both a male and female voice, but the woman was never seen entering or leaving, and there was no physical evidence she was ever there. There are also some newspaper clippings from years back about a few people in New England dropping dead from heart attacks during intercourse, but Dad never got a hold of whatever it was. It may not have even been our type of case.”  
  
“And pigs might fly, Sam.” There was a rustling from the bathroom as Dean cleaned himself off and pulled up his pants. The material scraped against his erection and he clenched his teeth against the pleasure-pain. “So what else did Bobby say?” Dean ran some water to wash off his hands as best he could. He really needed a shower, but he didn’t trust himself in his current condition. He’d been riding the edge of _fuck, so close_ for longer than any man should have to endure.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Dude,” Dean said, opening the door dividing the space between them. He had his dirty t-shirt slung over his shoulder and was wearing only his jeans. His cock was jutting against the fabric, defined by a sharp outline along the front of his pants. Sam's eyes skirted the area, and roved over the hand-shaped burn scar before finally meeting his brother's defiant gaze.  “I may have just been yanked back from Hell, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know exactly what you sound like when you’re keeping something from me. I don’t care anymore if you want to keep your nocturnal activities to yourself, but dude, you are damn well going to tell me everything when it comes to this. I’m a little attached to the subject matter here!”  
  
Sam winced, but was saved from answering as his cell rang, filling the expectant air with some crappy radio rock ballad. “Bobby?” Sam answered, midway through the first ring. “Yeah, he’s okay.” Sam’s eyes kept glancing to him, then away. It was making Dean dizzy. The one-sided conversation continued, Bobby apparently filling his brother in on how to reach one of his contacts. “Yeah. Cleveland? What’s the address?” Sam grabbed a sheet of paper from the nightstand and scribbled something on it. “Okay, got it Bobby, thanks.” Sam reached the door, duffel bag slung over a broad shoulder, before he hit the end button on his cell, his freakishly long legs devouring the distance like he couldn’t get away fast enough.  
  
“Grab your shit Dean, we’re going to Ohio. And for God’s sake put a damn shirt on,” Sam called.  
  
“What’s in Cleveland?”  
  
“Acquaintance of Bobby’s from England. He’s apparently in the States visiting friends. Bobby said he’s a demonologist, the real deal. His name is Rupert Giles.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sam hadn’t let his brother out of his sight since Michigan. He also couldn’t help but notice (though he tried really, really hard) that Dean’s erection hadn’t subsided, or that it was causing his brother to become distracted. If Lilith and her demons were to find them now, Dean would be a sitting duck. So Sam watched over him as he slouched in the passenger’s seat, clearly unhappy about the arrangement. Sam’s argument was that if Dean started touching himself while he was driving, they’d end up crashing the Impala. That had shut his brother right up, and he’d climbed in the passenger’s side with an unhappy glower. They rode in silence, though Sam did offer to let Dean choose the music. His brother had just glared at him.  
  
Sam would be lying if he said he was one hundred percent focused on the road. His eyes often pulled to the right to catch a glimpse of his brother out of his peripheral vision. Dean had shut himself off, and that meant he was really worried. Well, Sam couldn’t blame him. Dean’s face looked carved from stone, the set of his jaw telegraphing his tension even if Sam didn’t know his brother. Even if he hadn’t idolized him since he was four years old. Even if he didn't know every single thing about his moods.  Sam reached behind him to the box of Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock and pulled out Zeppelin IV. Even he had to admit, the opening strands of Black Dog were pretty awesome. Glancing over at Dean again, he noted the subtle relaxation of his brother’s body, and allowed himself a small smile.  
  
Bobby’s librarian and demonologist friend, Rupert Giles, was staying with friends just about 200 miles down I-90. It was pure serendipity that they were less than three hours from his location; to the Winchesters, used to driving across the country overnight, that was practically next door. Apparently Mr. Giles was only in the States for a short time, as he spent the majority of his time in England, heading up some organization that observed supernatural occurrences. Unfortunately the man didn’t have a cell phone or an email address, so there was no way to get in touch with him before they showed up on his doorstep.  
  
“You hungry, man?”  
  
Dean grunted in response, noncommittal.  
  
“We just passed a diner advertising two-for-one burgers and cheese fries,” said Sam, tone slipping from matter-of-fact to enticing in 0.1 seconds. Hunger was the barometer for Dean’s emotional state; if greasy diner food couldn’t get his attention it meant the situation was dire.  
  
“Yeah, alright fine, I could eat.” Dean’s voice was harsh and clipped from the strain of not touching himself. Sitting in the car was torture. He knew torture, knew how to take his mind elsewhere. Of course, it always kept coming back to Sam. In the Pit it had been visions of his brother finding a way to rescue him, but now even his own brain was conspiring against him. Now? It was like escaping from one nightmare just to land in another. His brother filled his thoughts, images from the past: Sam stepping out of the bathroom wearing only an obscenely small towel around his hips, Sam laying in the bed across from his, thinking Dean didn’t hear the whimpers he made as he got himself off, Sam in the other bed, his body a tense outline as he listened to Dean get it on with Chelsea Newman. Dammit! Thinking about his brother that way was sick and he was pretty sure that between Hell and this sex poison, he was royally screwed.  
  
Sam executed a U-turn without slowing down, and that was enough to earn him an angry glare. “Dude, you fuck up my car and I _will_ kill you.”  
  
Sam smirked. Regardless of whatever Dean was going through, he was still his pain in the ass big brother.  
  
The diner was pretty empty when Sam and Dean entered; mid-afternoon, before the dinner rush could fill the place with tired businessmen and hungry families. There was an old man nursing a coffee in the far booth and a trio of college-age guys laughing over a late breakfast, maybe trying to kill their hangovers from the previous night. Neither group looked like they might house demons, but it was better to be safe than sorry. They took a seat in a booth near the door, Dean facing the other patrons, Sam with a view of the entrance.  
  
Dean’s jaw was tight, but his stomach was growling. He grabbed the menus tucked between the napkin dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers, tossed one in Sam’s direction and buried his face in the other. His hands holding the laminated paper were white-knuckled. The smell of food helped take his mind off…things, and he was doing his best to force himself not to think about fucking Sam against the diner wall. Fuck. He had to get out of there.  
  
“Hi!” said a perky voice, catching Dean’s attention and making him gaze up from the menu. The girl seemed a bit out of breath, inhaling deeply before speaking again. “I’m Chastity, and I’ll be taking care of you guys today. What can I do to start you off?”   
  
The waitress was young and brunette and Dean suddenly became very conscious of the anatomy he was trying to deny.  
  
“How about some of your pie?” responded Dean, a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. Dangerous because of the way the girl’s breath caught in her throat. Dangerous because she couldn’t hide her attraction and Dean was not safe to be around right now.  
  
Sam didn’t even think the waitress wasn’t even that hot, but Dean didn’t seem to care. He gave her his thousand kilowatt smile, bright and white and blinding, and she blushed right down to her pink-painted toes. Normally that would be when Dean charmed free food out of the poor woman, but Dean was not behaving normally just then, not when he looked ready to push himself against her body and slip his hand into her sopping panties, circle his fingers around her clit, and bring her off in front of Sam and the diner and everyone. He was looking at her like she was something to devour, and his behavior truly drove it home to Sam that his brother needed help like, yesterday.  
  
“Ignore him. We’ll have the specials, thanks,” interrupted Sam, shooting a warning look at his brother. As she walked away reluctantly, Sam turned to his brother. “Are you crazy?”  
  
“What, a guy can’t flirt a little?”  
  
“Dean, you were ready to have sex with her right here in public!” he hissed.  
  
“Calm down, Sammy, I’m fine.” Dean’s smile was tight and forced. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, caught up in the waitress and Sam and sex and how desperately he needed to come right now. Dean shifted in the seat, trying to make some room for his swollen cock. He should have changed his pants before leaving the hotel room.  
  
Sam knew better than to push his brother at moments like these; it wouldn’t get him anything but an upset, sullen, pain-in-the-ass Dean that he’d have to deal with in an enclosed space for two more hours. They fell into a comfortable silence while waiting for their food.  
  
When Chastity the waitress came out of the kitchen bearing four burgers, two orders of cheese fries and a slice of cherry pie, Sam grabbed a handful of his brother’s jeans underneath the table, holding him in place. “Oh, come on!” protested Dean.  
  
“You know what Bobby said, what I said. You stay put,” Sam warned.  
  
“Killjoy.”  
  
The brunette set down the plates in front of the brothers. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, blushing at Dean. The elder Winchester leered, opening his mouth as if to speak when Sam’s foot came down on his instep, hard.  
  
“Ow! What the hell, dude?”  
  
“Just the check, please,” Sam told the girl. She set the slip of paper down in front of Dean, upside down with her name and phone number scrawled across the back.  
  
“Enjoy your meal,” she smiled and walked away to refill the old man’s coffee.  
  
“Dean, you need to calm down. Stop flirting with anything that moves; we have no idea what could happen to you because of the bite. Until we know what’s wrong, you’re just going to sit there and eat your damn burgers and cheese fries.”  
  
“You think I don’t get it? Well, I do. I’m dealing with this as best I can, dude,” bit out Dean around a mouthful of burger. “Man, this is delicious!”  
  
Sam just rolled his eyes. But they both realized things were getting worse. When the brothers were done eating they paid for the meal with cash, leaving it on the table for Chastity, and got back on the road.  
  
\---  
  
It was early evening when they pulled up to a two story colonial, the sun slung low in the purpling sky. Sam parked the Impala in the street and both men approached the house, Dean trailing behind Sam by a few paces. There were ward symbols cleverly carved into the doorframe, and a heavy solid iron knocker on the door.  
  
A bespectacled middle aged man greeted them. “May I help you?”  
  
“Rupert Giles?” inquired Sam. “I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean. We’re friends of Bobby Singer’s. May we come in?”  
  
“Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Mr. Singer informed me you would be arriving this evening.” He led the brothers into the family room and motioned for them to take a seat on the plush sage green couch. He followed, sitting opposite them across a rectangular wooden coffee table.  
  
“So how do you know Bobby, Rupes?” asked Dean.  
  
The man grimaced. “You may call me Mr. Giles, Giles, or Rupert if you expect me to answer you, Mr. Winchester. Mr. Singer and I collaborated on a publication several years back on demon lore and alternate universes. He is very much an expert in his specialty of Judeo-Christian demonology. I fear I am more of a generalist. What is it that I can assist you with?”  
  
“We need to know everything you do about demons or any other creature that might feed on sex.” Sam paused, watching as the elder man removed his glasses and began cleaning them thoroughly. “More specifically, any that might be involved with biting. It would look like a snake bite, possibly on or near the genitalia.”  
  
“How fascinating—I will consult my books,” he offered, looking eager. Then his face fell, as if remembering something horrifying. “Much of my library remains at my home in England. However, I did leave several tomes here with Buffy.” Giles stood and went to the landing. “Buffy!” he called up the stairs.  
  
“What’s up G-Man?” yelled a perky female voice.  
  
“Buffy, I do wish you would cease calling me that ghastly nickname. I swear Xander is a terrible influence on you,” he sighed. “Do you still have my copy of the Codex Daemonica that I left with you last fall?”  
  
“Sure, be down in a jiff.”  
  
Giles resumed his seat across from the Winchester boys. “Why do you ask about, er, these types of demons?”  
  
Dean glared a warning at Sam, which went unheeded. “Well, my brother was attacked last night, and we’re trying to figure out what did it. We’re hunters, we kind of take care of these things for a living, but this is outside of our experience.”  
  
“Attacked? Oh dear Lord. Are you all right?” Before either brother could reply, they were interrupted by the Buffy Giles had been talking to.  
  
“One doorstop coming right up, Giles,” said the woman coming down the stairs. The book she carried in both hands was old, the leather fraying near the binding. And she was right; it was thick enough to weigh several pounds. Sam wondered idly if the author had been paid by the word.  
  
Dean’s back straightened in a single line of tension the moment he saw her. The woman’s blonde hair was put up in a messy pony tail, and she wore a bright pink camisole top with blue jeans that looked painted on. As she descended the staircase, his body coiled tighter. His cock throbbed against his jeans, begging to be released. She paused briefly and it almost looked like she was sniffing the air. Shaking it off, she smiled at Giles and the guests. At her smile, Dean left the couch and took a few involuntary steps toward her.  
  
“Wow, is it warm down here or what?” she said, setting the Codex down on the coffee table. The man who’d moved toward her was tall and handsome, though not as large as the other stranger seated on the couch.  The standing man made a sound that might have been a growl. Buffy was pretty familiar with men who did that, the whole possessive-I-want-your-body growl, though they generally happened to be dead. This one? Definitely not dead. And way too hot for his own good.  
  
“Dean!”  
  
Dean stopped moving, panic sending a fine tremor through him. He wanted her, wanted to possess her and slam her against the wall before shoving himself home. He shook with the effort it took to remain still. “Sam,” he implored, voice rough like it had been dragged a few miles down a gravel road. “You gotta get me away from her. Now, Sam!”  
  
“Stay here,” he told Giles and Buffy, and wasted no time grabbing Dean around the shoulders and leading him toward an empty guest room at the other end of the hallway. “Lock the door, Dean. We’ll secure it from this side.” He turned toward the young woman Giles had called Buffy. “Do you have something heavy we can move in front of the door?”  
  
“Yeah, there’s a bookcase I can move.” Buffy grabbed one of the ceiling-high bookcases from the library and positioned it in front of the door, blocking Dean’s escape.  
  
“You sure that’ll hold?” asked Sam, seeing the ease with which she moved it.  
  
“Try it,” she offered. Sam threw all his weight into it, but he couldn’t get the piece of furniture to budge. “Slayer strength,” she explained. “It’ll hold. So, what’s the what with spaz-boy?” she asked, gesturing behind her as they walked back to the family room.  
  
“Well, that’s kind of what we’re here to figure out. I’m Sam,” he said by way of introduction.  
  
“Well you’ve come to the right place. Hi, I’m Buffy, the ex-vampire slayer!”  
  
“The what?” asked Sam and Dean in unison. “And I am _so_ not a spaz!” yelled Dean from the guest bedroom.  
  
“I fear this will be a long evening,” deadpanned Giles.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean had been remarkably silent while Giles paged though the Codex. He’d banged against the door and whimpered desperate needy noises once or twice, but for Dean he was showing considerable restraint. While the elder man researched potential causes of his brother’s condition, Sam listened while Buffy explained what a Slayer was. One girl in each generation Called to fight against the forces of darkness. He found he had a lot in common with her, really, though he did envy her idyllic childhood and close friends, her ability to share her secret with other people and not have them run screaming or call for the guys in white coats.  
  
“I’m mostly retired now though,” she explained, “ever since Wills made with the magic thing and awakened all the potential Slayers. They’re all over the world now, so I can usually just be normal Buffy.”  
  
Sam nodded. “It must be nice to be able to have that. I—my brother and I, well. We’ve been hunting since before I could talk it seems. Our mom was killed by a demon when I was six months old.”  
  
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay. Honestly, I don’t really remember her. But her death, well, Dad couldn’t think about anything but finding the thing that did it. He raised us like warriors, so we never really had a chance at normal. I remember…just before the end of my senior year, he found my acceptance letter to Stanford.” Sam paused, features twisted with regret and loss. “He told me if I left, if I walked out the door, that I shouldn’t come back. And I didn’t. Not for four years, and by then my girlfriend was dead. Murdered by the same thing that killed my mother. The year after that, my father sacrificed his life to save my brother's.  
  
“I tried normal and safe, and it just came back to bite me on the ass. So I’m done with it. Dean’s the only family I’ve got now, and we’re going to find a way to fix this.”  
  
“Ah! Of course!” Giles suddenly exclaimed excitedly. He turned the huge book around so that Sam and Buffy could read it. “Here,” said Giles, pointing to a paragraph underneath the heading of _Succubus_. “’The more the victim indulges in his or her urges, the faster the poison spreads though the body’. There is an anecdotal account here of a woman who claimed to have been bitten by a demon. She had, er, _relations_ , with half the town in a single day, and the next she’d vanished. Some of those men reported feeling sick or tired afterward. The part about the venomous bite caught my attention. I do believe we may have found the type of creature that attacked your brother.”  
  
“What it says about the spread of the poison though…maybe something about the act of sex while the venom is in your blood makes you turn into a succubus yourself?” pondered Sam.   
  
Down the hall really wasn’t so very far away. The guest room was near enough to them that Dean overheard the conversation. “Oh Hell no, Sammy. You have to fix this,” he implored, his voice harsh and desperate. “I can’t just never have sex ever again!”   
  
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s superhuman libido, but he knew the situation was dire. Now that he had a more concrete idea of what to look for, Sam brought out his laptop and started browsing though websites devoted to succubus lore. Giles and Buffy focused on finding something in the collection of books that could help Dean. Between the tomes Giles had brought with him and Buffy’s personal library, they had a decent stack of material to peruse.  
  
The sun had long since set when Sam’s eyes finally began to tear up from strain. He rubbed at his eyes viciously, angry that they dared fail him in his time of need. He hadn’t tried to pull an all-nighter since junior year at Stanford, and he’d been several years younger and a good deal more accustomed to going without sleep at the time. Much of what he’d found on the supernatural websites reflected the common succubus myth of a female creature arousing and subsequently draining the life from men while they slept. That information really wasn’t applicable in Dean’s case, and Sam grew increasingly frustrated.  
  
Buffy laid a gentle hand on his arm, distracting him from the screen. Sometime in the intervening hours she’d changed into yellow fleece pajama pants with white duckies on them and a white camisole. “Sam, you need some rest.” He growled something incoherent at her, too tired to verbalize properly. “You’re exhausted. Get some sleep before I knock you unconscious myself.”   
  
“Fine,” he replied sullenly.  
  
“I’ll get you a blanket and pull out the hide-a-bed for you.” Buffy’s smile was sympathetic but not pitying, and for that reason alone, Sam went along with her.  
  
\---  
  
Dean had tried to work off his restless energy—pacing, push-ups, sit-ups, anything else he could think of to distract himself. All of the activities have been unsuccessful. He was worn out and amped up at the same time, covered in a sheen of sweat, but he figured he’d at least try to see if he could get some sleep.   
  
He slipped out of his olive drab button up and pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing them on the floor beside the bed before attempting the more delicate procedure of removing his pants. Carefully, so as not to accidentally brush against his erection, Dean unbuttoned his jeans and tugged the zipper down. His cock tented his boxers out like the goddamn entire circus was coming to town. It had been hours since they’d left the hotel, since his marathon jerk-off session in the bathroom, and if it was possible he was even more sensitive than before. A whisper or a thought could set him off, and then he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself.  
  
With his jeans safely kicked into a pile with his shirts, Dean climbed onto the queen size four-poster bed. He spent a good ten minutes turning from his left side to his right and back. He felt like friggin’ Goldilocks. The mattress was too soft. The floor, his second option, was too hard. Face up or face down hadn’t mattered other than that face down had put his dick in contact with a firm surface and it had been almost impossible not to generate some friction by grinding against it.  
  
After what the geek squad had found in that ginormous book though, Dean had done his damnedest to fall back on the strict self-control he’d been brought up with. Ten deep breaths didn’t help much, so he kept going all the way to a hundred. He’d be damned if he was going to let himself become something he’d hunted his whole life. Well, more damned than he already was. Maybe if he waited out the venom, he could escape unscathed. He just had to prevent himself from masturbating.  Yeah, because he was the poster boy for restraint.  
  
Dean rested his back against the bedroom door, the painted wood cool against his heated skin. He imagined that he could hear Sam’s light snores from the family room down the hall. Sam always looked so peaceful when he slept, the cares of the day set aside and he could finally _relax_. The worry lines in his brother’s face smoothed out and if Dean didn’t have firsthand experience with angels, he would compare Sam to one of them. Sam was better than that though.  
  
His thoughts tilted left, and suddenly Dean was thinking about what kind of noises Sam would make as his little brother slotted into him, filling him up, taking hold of his cock with enormous hands and pumping him until Dean came all over Sam’s fingers. His dick jerked as the fantasy rocked him, heat and pleasure radiating outward. His head lolled back against the door and the room seemed brighter than it had a moment ago. His balls tightened and Dean barely had time to pull off his boxers before he began to spurt. Fuck. He hadn’t even touched himself, goddamn it!  
  
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He had to get out of there. Think calming thoughts. Dean’s tried and true method for easing his body in times like these (well not exactly like these, because what the fuck) was to take a long, cold shower. Too bad he was trapped in the room. He had heard the blonde chick move something in front of the doorway, blocking him in.  
  
Suddenly feeling trapped and claustrophobic, Dean opened the door to find a huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase where the damn hallway should be. He had to get out. Dean braced himself against the doorframe and grabbed the bookcase on either side. It was heavy, but it moved, inch by slow inch, until Dean had enough room to squeeze through. He was shaking with exertion when he was done, taking deep breaths to slow his heart rate.  
  
Dean padded softly down the hall, not wanting to wake Sam, who was sleeping on the fold out bed, looking just as serene as Dean had imagined. The familiar heat filled Dean’s body and he told himself to look away, to walk upstairs and take his goddamn shower. But then the bed creaked beneath Sam’s weight as he turned over onto his back and gave Dean a front seat view to his little brother’s really impressive hard-on. Dean paused on the stairway as he watched Sam turn over again and grind rhythmically into the hide-a-bed, clearly having an erotic dream.  
  
“Sammy, you dog,” he quietly murmured to himself, grinning. His brother was _totally_ never going to hear the end of this. Dean filed the sight away, but he couldn’t help but be turned on by Sam’s arousal, his erect dick pulsing in answer. Forcing himself to go upstairs and find the guest shower, he ripped his gaze from Sam with an almost physical sense of loss. This shit had to end, because he was becoming even more of a pervert than usual.  
  
\---  
  
Sam awoke when he heard a floorboard creak, and found his brother descending the staircase wearing only the amulet Sam had given him and a small pink towel around his hips. Sam’s jaw fell open as he stared at his more than half naked brother, for once noticing the little physical details he’d always glossed over as just being part of Dean – the exact curve of his cheekbone, the mouth that was so plump and begging to be kissed, the freckles scattered haphazard across his nose, the brilliant hazel of his eyes. Sam wondered what those lips would feel like wrapped around his dick. He gave himself a mental shake. What the hell kind of thought was that? Looking at Dean’s face was obviously a bad idea.   
  
His eyes traveled to his older brother’s torso instead, roaming across Dean’s skin with an intensity that was almost physical. Dean wasn’t as bulky as Sam, but his six pack was just as defined. His eyes picked out the shiny handprint scar that had slowly faded from angry pink to an almost translucent pearly white over the last few months. But his groin tightened when he focused on the pentagram tattoo on Dean’s pectoral, the one that matched his own exactly, that tied them securely to their own bodies and to each other.   
  
Sam couldn’t help but follow the dark blonde trail of hair down to where the towel was wrapped around Dean’s tapered waist. Sure enough, his brother was still hard underneath the slight (very, very slight) nod to modesty.  
  
“Dude,” Sam choked out, “put some clothes on.”   
  
“Quit being so jealous over how amazingly good looking I am, Sammy,” he responded with a cocky smile.   
  
Dean dodged as Sam’s answering riposte nearly hit him square in the face. He couldn’t fault the kid’s aim at least, though a shoe was hardly the desired weapon of choice. “Aren’t you supposed to be locked up in the guest room?” asked Sam grumpily. Dean just chuckled and padded back to his room. And if neither of them mentioned the fact that they were both hard, well, that was to be expected. Winchesters were damn good at repression.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as it became a reasonable hour on both sides of the ocean, Giles was on the phone, contacting one of the Watcher's Council members in England. William Atherton was an expert on succubus myth and legend, and although rather new to the Council, he was already a very highly regarded scholar. He had also become something like a protégé to Giles. Sam was the only other person awake in the whole house. Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to sleep very well last night, plagued with disturbing dreams he could only half remember. He’d awoken before the sun came up with a sequoia stuffed down his pants, so that gave him a hint of the content of his dreams, if not the specifics. He’d put the hide-a-bed away and now sprawled across the sofa in a tangled array of arms and legs and pillows and blankets, face firmly planted in one of Giles' books.  
  
Giles sat on Buffy’s black leather recliner, the cordless receiver rested between his ear and shoulder while balancing a pad of paper in his lap. “William? Yes, I’m doing very well, thank you. No, actually, I’m calling to get your opinion on something. Hold on, I’d like to put you on speakerphone.”  
  
Giles fiddled with the phone for several seconds, until Sam finally took pity on the man and located the button on the base station for him.  
  
“Bloody machines. Just as bad as the idiot boxes they call television. Yes, well,” Giles cleared his throat and composed himself once again. “I’ve just had some friends of a friend come seeking my assistance. I believe one of them has been a victim of a succubus attack. The boy complained of being bitten two nights ago, and has been er, aroused ever since. Perhaps the feeding caused some unforeseen consequences.”   
  
Sam was surprised at how young Atherton sounded when he replied. “Mr. Giles, I believe what you are describing is a result of the succubus procreation ritual, not a simple feeding. Succubi don’t bite those they feed from. The Latin _succubaire_ or _sub cubare_ literally translates to ‘one who lies beneath,’ which is a clue to how they obtain sustenance; they drain the energy created by their partners during sex. They are only venomous in certain circumstances, such as when they go into heat.”  
  
Sam didn’t really know exactly what that meant in the context of a demonic seductress, but he had a pretty good idea, and it all added up to a sinking feeling in his stomach and trouble for Dean. He glanced over at Giles, who was listening attentively and taking notes on his small pad, having taken a time out from looking down every few seconds to polish his glasses on his shirt.  
  
“There have been very few documented cases of succubus poisoning,” William continued. “Some academics in the field actually doubt its existence, but from what I’ve been able to piece together from first and secondhand accounts, it is a very real phenomenon. Usually the infection is followed by rampant coupling and the eventual disappearance of the victim. In one case, there were eyewitness accounts of a man reappearing twenty years after he’d vanished without a trace, seeming to have not aged a day. Following the man’s return, there was a rash of hospitalizations of the male populous due to exhaustion. It is quite possible that succubi do not age as humans do. Their metabolic needs are quite different.”  
  
Sam thanked God that Dean was still sleeping; his brother would probably have an aneurism if he’d overheard the Brit’s words. “Mr. Atherton,” Sam began, carefully measuring his voice for politeness and respect, regardless of how urgent he actually felt, “my name’s Sam Winchester. It’s my brother who was attacked. Are you suggesting that it’s possible that these victims somehow become succubi themselves?  I thought succubi were exclusively female.”  
  
“I’m sure of it,” she scholar answered. “The evidence is quite conclusive, though of course the Council has never had an actual succubus to study. As far as gender, I can only assume that because homosexual coupling was frowned upon for so long much of the lore surrounding the creatures has become corrupted by prejudice. I am quite excited to be able to document this case.” The man was too damn eager, in Sam’s opinion. “I’m sorry about your brother,” Atherton added belatedly.  
  
“Well has anyone ever stopped it? Found a cure, anything?” Dean was turning into a succubus? Giles’s Codex had suggested it, but now he’d gotten confirmation from a scholar devoted to the study of these things. God he’d hoped he’d been wrong. Sam guessed that was why he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off his brother. He knew it was sick and wrong, and he was seriously weirded out…but physically his body responded to Dean. He wasn’t gay, or incestuous; it was just the venom talking. But his body’s reaction while Dean was around made it damn hard to concentrate.  
  
There was a pause on the other end, as if the Council member was pondering, trying to remember if anyone had escaped their fate. “I’ve never heard of antivenom,” Atherton finally replied, “though the infection itself feeds off of sex and arousal, so the more potent the feelings, the swifter the transformation. I’ll keep my eyes open for any new information on this, but it would be helpful if I could have a blood sample.”   
  
Giles’s eyes brightened in excitement. “Good idea William!” he exclaimed. An occurrence like this was a rare chance to increase the knowledge base of the Council.  
  
“Man, Dean’s not gonna like that. He hates hospitals.”  
  
“No, I’m afraid we can’t risk taking him to a hospital. Not in his current condition.” Giles set his notebook down on the coffee table and sighed. “Thank you for your assistance, William. You’ll let us know as soon as you find anything?”   
  
“Yes, yes of course. Goodbye, Rupert.”  
  
“Goodbye.”  
  
Sam imagined his brother in a hospital, around that swarming throng of humanity, his eyes dilated and bright. Sam could read Dean better than anyone, and those hazel eyes held fear and lust in damn near equal measure. He could almost feel the tight grip he’d have to keep on Dean’s shirt, restraining him and anchoring him. Forcing his brother to remain in the _here_ and the _now_ and not wherever the venom was taking him. Dean would try to slip him, of course, but Sam would be ready for the attempt, and pin his brother against the wall. They’d be so close like this, Sam’s larger body able to touch every part of Dean, able to dominate his older brother.  
  
Oh, fucking hell. He’d tried to pass the previous night off as a fluke; the weird sex dream was _obviously_ from going so long without. It certainly hadn’t been about Dean…had it? He loved Dean, sure, of course, but he didn’t want to _make love_ to Dean…well, he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t, intellectually. Sam’s brain and his dick didn’t seem to be on speaking terms at the moment.   
  
Sam forced himself to _think_ and it really shouldn’t have been that hard to make his brain function, to figure out what was happening to him. Dean was awake. Awake and somehow projecting his desires onto those nearby. That was the only thing Sam could come up with, because it certainly wasn’t he that wanted to throw his brother to the bed and push himself inside of him. All those thoughts were focused on one pure need, and it was making Sam’s cock more than half-hard.  
  
Sam excused himself awkwardly, maneuvering carefully and trying to hide his erection. Damn it, he hadn’t been this out of control of his body since puberty. “I’m gonna go see if he’s up yet,” he informed Giles, who merely nodded his acknowledgment, not looking up from polishing the glasses he seemed to have gotten smudged yet again.  
  
Sam padded down the hall with no small amount of trepidation. “Dean, you awake?” Sam called from a safe distance, voice laced with concern. If there was a slight tremor there too, well, it was a closer cousin to yearning then fear. Dean was broadcasting pretty damn loud. Sam heard an answering muted groan from the other side of the barrier. Sound carried surprisingly well though the bookcase and bedroom door. “Hey man, so Giles talked to this guy in England, and he’s gonna help find a cure for this,” Sam tried to reassure Dean from the other side of the door. It was as close as Sam was really comfortable getting in his confused emotional state. Their relationship since Dean had returned from Hell was strained enough as it was. Acting on this thing between them could fuck it up beyond repair.  
  
But God damn it, ninety percent of his thoughts were consumed with Dean. While that was nothing new, the subject matter had changed drastically. Sam’s thoughts centered on how Dean’s soft lips would feel against his cock, how soft his hair would be as Sam buried his fingers in it, tugging on it firmly as he guided his brother’s mouth. Dean’s skin welted so easily—had since they were kids—it wouldn’t even take much pressure to raise swollen red lines with his fingernails. Mark him up, let everyone know that Dean was _his_. Sam’s breath came in short gasping pants and his dick strained toward the door, toward Dean.  
  
“Yeah,” his brother replied bitterly. “Sammy…you need to…god, _fuck_ you smell good. You need to get away from the door. Need too….” Dean’s voice trailed off into what Sam hoped weren’t choked sobs. If they were, he’d allow Dean the dignity of pretending he hadn’t heard them even while his heart broke for his brother.  
  
“All right,” Sam said, retreating. Walking away was one of the hardest things he’d had to do in a long time. “I’ll just get some breakfast, okay? Don’t…just don’t touch yourself, you know?” When he got no response, Sam trod toward the kitchen, praying his erection would subside before anyone else could see him in this state. But if he couldn’t indulge one hunger, he’d at least take care of the other. _We’ll find the answer_ , Sam promised himself. He’d let Dean down once before, allowed Lilith to drag him to Hell bloody and screaming. It wasn’t going to happen again, even if he had to take Ruby’s blood offering. He’d be strong, he’d save Dean and destroy anything that tried to tear them apart.  
  
Buffy had awakened and journeyed downstairs sometime in the intervening time, and the smells coming from the kitchen hinted at food that might just be fit for human consumption. Giles was already at the table, spreading jam on a muffin and seeping a tea bag in a mug of hot water that read “World’s Best Librarian.” Sam figured it was probably a custom decal.  
  
“Hey, I have like, the best idea in the history of awesome ideas,” exclaimed Buffy when she saw Sam enter. “Wills and Xander are off today; it’s a great excuse to get the original Scooby Gang back together again.” She seemed incredibly excited, like a puppy with a new toy and an eager partner to play with. “We haven’t had a study party for like, _ages_. Not since I semi-retired from the whole Chosen One gig.”  
  
“You want Willow and Xander here in the house? At the same time?” Giles’s voice held a note of carefully restrained panic.  
  
“Come on, Giles! It’ll be like old times!”  
  
“Yes, that is what I’m afraid of.”  
  
\---  
  
Willow and Xander joined them around midday, bringing with them welcome sustenance in the form of highly caffeinated soda and bags of salty goodness. Buffy introduced them to Sam, and while he envied Buffy her friends, he liked them immediately. Xander’s ready smile and humor and Willow’s predisposition to fluctuate from hyper to serene like some insane teeter-totter…they reminded him of different times. A time when he had friends, people who didn’t know about the life he’d been born into. He hadn’t even talked to his Stanford friends in years, not since St. Louis; they were part of an ill-fitting life that didn’t belong to him anymore, if it ever had.   
  
Sam was amazed at how well they worked together, how in sync their thought process was. Xander would begin a sentence, and Willow or Buffy would finish it, providing some personal insight that would then spur them on to the next idea. Giles had begged off for the evening. “The three of them together in the same room? Well, I fear that is a situation best left to far younger men than I.” He could see the elder man’s point; being in the same room at them was mentally draining, especially trying to interpret their strange personal language. He was very much on the outside looking in, and it shocked him how much he resented their closeness. He had only Dean left in the whole world, and lately they’d been silently drifting apart from each other.  
  
The four of them looked for anything to do with curing Dean's condition, as well as warding off a succubus, and preventing a person from coming to harm. There were several charms for the latter, but everything they’d found about warding off a succubus was useless in Dean’s case. The creature had already gotten to him. He’d already been infected. They had to find a way to work the venom out of his system somehow, before it could gain in power.  
  
Buffy made Xander take Dean some food, moving the bookcase so he could get in. He also managed to persuade the elder Winchester sibling to donate a vial of blood to science. Wacky monster science, but science nonetheless. Dean didn’t talk much, and Sam knew he was sinking into his depression. There was also nothing he could do about it without endangering Dean further. Being close to him…it was like a gravitational force, like he was caught in Dean’s orbit. If he got any closer to dean, his brother's gravity would send them hurtling toward each other in uncontrolled free fall. He wondered if any other the others felt it. Willow and Xander seemed oblivious, but he’d seen Buffy steal some glances at the bookcase, and maybe she’d fidgeted in her chair a few times. The influence of his brother’s magical sex powers was spreading. Man, they were really fucked.  
  
\---  
  
The house was quiet at last. Sam had fallen asleep on the sofa sometime during Buffy’s study party, and the Slayer’s friends had left a short while after that. Dean had been going stir-crazy trapped in the room with so many people just outside. Only two flimsy barriers had stood in his way, but he was _not_ a monster, damn it. He’d even let the dude with the eye patch (which was really badass, by the way) draw some blood to send to Rupes’ buddy. He’d wished for eleventh hour miracles before, and they’d never deigned to grace him. After all, he’d been puréed by Lilith’s hellhounds and left to rot in Hell for forty years until Castiel had yanked him out for Heaven’s own purposes. Dean pretty much figured he was royally screwed this time too.  
  
Dean couldn’t stay in the house a minute longer. If he did, he knew from experience that the bookcase would not deter him from seeking out Buffy, or Sam. His body _needed_ and Dean had never been one to deny himself for long. He sneaked out the window, doing his best not to trample the flowers and walked, needing to get some space between him and the lingering scents in the house. It wasn’t just his sense of smell that had improved either, and yeah, he was really fucking freaked out. He wasn’t really going anywhere, just allowing his body to move, one foot in front of the other. His aimless stroll led him past darkened streets, abandoned alleyways, and finally to three-story building alit with neon in warm shades of orange and yellow.   
  
It looked like a local club, with a line of half-dressed people stretched around the building, waiting for their chance to see if they were hot enough, connected enough, rich enough to be accepted inside. Something inside him shifted and he was no longer a hunter but a predator, a subtle yet terribly important difference. Dean smiled; it was not a nice smile. It was all teeth and bite. It was hungry and fierce, and worryingly genuine. He was about ready to pounce on the closest thing that moved, and maybe if he could ease some of his urges here, he could save Sam from doing the thing he wouldn’t promise. Not that he blamed Sam, in his position Dean doubted he'd be able to kill his brother too.

 

Dean’s need for sex didn’t discriminate, he would fuck anyone—including his brother—given the opportunity, and he would not allow that to happen. He was going to protect Sammy from the thing inside him. He knew he was lying to himself, that being around people was a terrible idea, but there also wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. His body was out of his control, the only thing Dean could do was point it in a direction where it would do minimal damage.  
  
Dean prowled up to the entrance, eyes tracing the illuminated sign idly while he fished into his jacket pocket for a few twenty dollar bills. _Solid Gold_ , indeed. Dean pressed his body against the burly man guarding the door and slipped the crumpled bills into the back pocket of the doorman’s pants, gritting his teeth from the effort required not to feel up the doorman’s ass while he was there. Not to pull their bodies further together and grind the length of his erection against the bigger man. But damn it, he wasn’t gay. Not that his dick cared. Dean grinned at the guy, still painfully close to him. The doorman groaned, but reluctantly let Dean inside.  
  
The scents of people inside the club were a physical sensation, even though no one touched him. It was like he was encased in a protective bubble; everyone was aware of him, but no one would approach. They were given the impression of an untamed beast, beautiful, so fucking beautiful. But dangerous. Maybe even deadly. Like Dean could devour them whole, leave them used and broken.  
  
“Gimme a beer,” he asked the bartender, a woman in her late twenties with vibrant red hair pulled into a messy ponytail and thick black square-framed glasses. Dean grinned at her, and maybe her knees went a bit weak.  
  
Dean felt the soft press of cool flesh against his overheated back before he heard the woman approach, the loud music of the club making it hard for him to differentiate one sound from another. Dean’s spine stiffened for a few reasons: shock at being surprised, but mostly trying to stop himself from picking the intruder up and throwing her down on the bar, spreading her legs and burying himself to the hilt inside her. But wasn’t that what he’d come for? To do that to some anonymous person so he wouldn’t do it to the people he actually gave a damn about? He didn’t know anymore. His stomach turned and he tasted bile in his mouth.  
  
Dean grabbed the beer and laid a five down on the bar, taking a long draw from the bottle to rinse the taste of disgust and self-hatred from his mouth. He didn’t turn around, just pushed back against her, searching hands seeking the skin of her back and trailing slowly down to the swell of her ass. Deceptively gentle. Dean didn’t have it in him to actually feel tender toward any of these faceless bodies, but he’d been faking it for years.  
  
“I’ve been watching you.” Her voice in his ear was whiskey-smooth and seductive as the serpent in the garden.  
  
“Oh yeah?” responded Dean, not turning around. He was beginning to think this was a bad idea. Damn it, he _knew_ what could happen if he gave into this. But he’d sacrifice himself—even surrendering his humanity on the altar of Sam—to protect his brother; he’d done it before and despite the aftermath, he’d do it again. And when it came down to it, he wasn’t strong enough to resist. Once broken, never again whole, and far too easy to shatter a second time. Maybe Sam had had a point, maybe he was weak. He certainly felt it now, unable to resist the call of venom in his blood. “So you like what you see?”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” Her clever fingers tiptoed to the silver button of his Levi’s, but didn’t move to unfasten them. She just let them rest there, and Dean’s cock crept toward her digits with a mind of its own, begging to be stroked, caressed, sucked, _anything_. He felt like he’d die if he didn’t get some stimulation.  
  
Dean grit his teeth against a moan, refusing to voice his desperation. Instead he slammed his half-empty bottle down on the bar, grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her to the dance floor. He spun her forcefully to face him, hands on her hips and her soft moan in his ear. She was dressed like a brunette Lita Ford in a black shirt skimpy enough to be a bra and barely-there shorts, and fuck if that wasn’t a turn on. The music piping though the club’s sound system wasn’t even in the same country code as what he liked—some soulless electronic dance music, no heart, no fucking guitar—but he was drunk on need and he just had to fucking _move_. Dean dragged the length of himself against her and she arched her back, showing him the bare expanse of her abdomen. He growled low in his throat, animalistic.  
  
“Want you,” she whispered in his ear, nibbling at his earlobe and licking down the side of his throat. Dean leaned into it, and tilted his neck slightly, baring it to her slick tongue and blunt incisors. She pulled herself close, and rode his thigh like a goddamn stripper’s pole, working her way down so that her mouth was just about level with his crotch, then slowly climbing her way back up his body. “Please,” she begged, grinding herself against his dick.  
  
He knew this was a terrible idea; he was just out of options. The venom inside his body was singing for it, taking Dean and bending him, molding him, _warping_ him into what it needed him to be. If it had to be somebody, let it be anyone but Sam. He wished he was strong enough to do what had to be done, because he knew Sam, and the kid would die before he would kill him. Kill _for_ him, _die_ for him, yeah, of course. That was what Winchesters did, after all. Resigning himself to fate, Dean led the chick to the exit door on the far side of the dance floor.  
  
The alley behind the club reminded him of a different night with a different woman. It was darker tonight though; the only light was coming from the ambient neon glow of the signage. Dean could see perfectly, his hazel eyes edging toward true green.  
  
He took Lita (hell who needed real names when he had his fucking high school fantasy right here) by the shoulders, his hands huge on her slight frame, and shoved her back against the brick. She couldn’t have been much over five feet. Dean lifted her easily and she wrapped her slender thighs around his waist. He was not gentle when he crushed his lips to hers, scraping the inside of his mouth against his teeth. Dean could taste the metallic tang of blood when his tongue begged her for admittance. Her eyes went huge at the first taste of it, pupils blown with only a faint ring of blue betraying the color of her irises.   
  
“You’re delicious,” she murmured. Dean didn’t stop plundering her mouth to ask what she meant. He explored her with sure strokes of his tongue against hers, pausing only briefly to draw breath. She didn’t seem to share that requirement, arching toward him when he retreated, desperate for more.  
  
Dean thrust a hand down the front of her shorts and curled his index and middle fingers into her sopping pussy. She shuddered against him and threw back her head in a soundless scream. Aroused as she was, he would have expected her to feel like an oven clamped around his fingers, but her flesh was cool, not much warmer than the March air. But she made up for it in wetness. “God, so ready for me, so fucking wet.” The filth poured from Dean’s lips as he explored her. His fingers slid easily into her, and Dean used the base of his thumb to rub against Lita’s clit. She tightened her legs around him and started begging, a stream of nonsensical verbiage consisting entirely of the words “now” and “harder” and “fuck, yes!”  
  
“Gonna come for me?” Dean asked. He was breathless, his voice deepened and roughened by desire and exertion. “You imagining my fingers are my cock inside you, filling you up? Gonna tighten that sweet little pussy around my hand when I make you explode?” God, he didn’t know why he was doing this to himself. Bringing her to the edge left him on the precipice as well, and the ground was looking really enticing.  
  
“Harder!” she begged. “Another—please, one more…almost….” She trailed off as Dean gave in to her request, adding a third finger to the two already pumping in and out of her snatch. Dean leaned in as he did so and sucked a nipple though the covering of her skimpy black shirt. She gasped and shuddered against him. Unable to resist, he bit down hard enough to make her feel it, though he didn’t break the skin.  
  
“Oh!” Her surprised exclamation swiftly gave way to a drawn out moan and then into bitten off screams as she began convulsing around Dean’s fingers, growing even slicker as she came against him, thrashing and grinding into his hand. He took her though it, rubbing her clit gently as aftershocks echoed through her body.  
  
“What—what _are_ you?” she asked breathlessly.  
  
“Awesome,” Dean answered, grin splitting his face as Lita uncurled her legs from his waist so that she could manipulate the fastenings of his fly. Her slender fingers were nimble and practiced, and she had him naked from the waist down faster than Dean could bite out a curse. His dick was weeping and longer and thicker than he’d ever seen it, flushed with blood. The chick started to bend down to put her lips to it, but he stopped her. Once bitten, twice paranoid as hell. He pinned her to the wall instead and tore her shorts down, retrieving a condom from his own discarded jeans while he was at it. Dean tore at the packaging furiously, ripping it to shreds in his haste. Sliding it down the length of himself with one hand, he steadied himself against the wall with the other. The feeling of flesh on his cock made his knees shake with the force of his need.  
  
He pushed himself against Lita, pinning her between him and the brick wall. His dick slid along her opening, teasing against her entrance. She was soaked, and Dean coated himself in her juices before drawing a shuddering breath and pushing into her with one firm stroke. She clenched against him and fuck he almost came right then. But goddamn it, this was his specialty—besides banishing ghosts, exorcising demons, and failing to save the people he loved—and he gave himself a few seconds before setting a pace that was sure to leave the chick’s back scraped up. It helped that she was as cool on the inside as she had been on the outside, and finally now that his cock had what it wanted Dean could almost think clearly.  
  
Something was kind of off about this chick, Dean realized. He hadn’t able to process it until he’d gotten her shoved against the rough wall of _Solid Gold_ , his cock sheathed inside her, pounding to the rhythm of his frantic heart. He made a mental tally. Despite their exertion, she was cool to the touch, had no breath and no answering beat to twine with his in staccato polyrhythms, point and counterpoint to the pace of their coupling. When she moaned, her breath held the scent of old blood. Dean pulled back to look at her and saw that her features were horribly disfigured, her eyes yellow and brows lined with deep furrows. Then there was her mouth, lined with sharp fangs and jagged teeth. Fucking vampire, but different than the kind he and Sam had encountered before. He tried to move away from her, but suddenly found himself trapped in an iron grip.  
  
Between one moment and the next, Dean was thrown backwards and a blonde head replaced the sable haired one in his vision. The warmth that had enveloped his cock had vanished, leaving him bereft and exposed to the cold night air.  
  
“Are you defective?” asked the tiny blonde. She carried what looked like a sharpened wood stake in her right hand. Buffy used all the synonyms for mentally deficient he’d ever heard and some that he was pretty damn sure she’d just invented on the spot. He was covered with fine dust and mourning the loss of the tight wetness around him.   
  
The tiny blonde reached into the pocket of her stylish brown leather jacket and retrieved her cell phone. “Giles? It’s me. I found our wayward Spaz-boy.” She glared at him reprovingly. “Yeah, we’re on the way home now,” she replied to the question Dean hadn’t been able to catch. Apparently demonic super-hearing had its limits.  
  
Buffy looked down to where Dean had fallen when she’d flung him away from the vamp that had been about to eat his face. “Christ, your brother is right, Winchester. You really will fuck anything that moves – pulse optional,” she quipped.   
  
He really was very attractive, she thought. She could see his fine bone structure even in the weak light. And he smelled….she couldn’t place it, but it was something like the spice of cinnamon and something like the comfort of warm apple pie and something like the ozone left behind when an insect flew too close to the bug zapper. It wasn’t much like any of those things, but it made her want to offer herself to Dean. She had more self-control than that. She’d played this game with Angel for years, the ‘I want you but can’t have you’ merry-go-round. Pretty as Dean was, she wasn’t going to endanger them both by doing something monumentally stupid like giving into demon-induced lust.  
  
She almost changed her mind in the next moment, when Dean got to his feet and slid his muscled half-naked body up next her hers. His jeans were around his ankles and Dean Junior was saluting her with one winking eye. There was barely a breath between them, and it took everything she had to push him away.   
  
The rough shove knocked Dean back and he almost lost his balance, but he’d been trained better than that. He was shocked at the power of her, and even more turned on. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’ve never been with a Slayer before,” Buffy scoffed. “Trust me, Dean, I’m more than you can handle right now.”   
  
“Never had any complains before, Sweetheart,” he leered, the challenge clear in his tone and body language, but thankfully he backed off. It reminded Buffy of the way she felt after patrolling, desperate with the need to fight or fuck. She thought that maybe she was finally starting to understand some of what Dean Winchester was. That was of the bad, since she was just helping him and Sam out as a favor to Giles. She really didn’t need any more complications in her life. She really, really liked her complication-free life.  
  
“Pull up your pants, Romeo. We’re going home.”  
  
Dean complied wordlessly. He was anxious and fidgety walking back to Buffy’s house, walking carefully and doing his damnedest not to either touch himself or try to jump the Slayer. “How did you find me, anyway?” he asked, curious.  
  
She hesitated before answering, until he was sure she wasn’t going to reply at all. “Slayers have this, well, sixth sense-y thing. We can sense when vampires and some other demons are nearby. Humans don’t trigger it, but you…well, you’re starting to.”   
  
“So you’re like Spider-man or something? Is your Slayer-sense tingling?” he asked with a grin he couldn’t help. The whole idea was terrifying, and Dean had learned humor as a defense mechanism before Sam had taken his first steps.  
  
“Dean,” she smiled, “shut up.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam was surprised his feet hadn’t worn a hole in the wood flooring (soft cotton socks apparently did not create the necessary friction to erode the surface). He’d awoken earlier that night to what felt like a void in the pit of his stomach, and he’d known that Dean had left. The role reversal was a sucker punch to the gut, and damn it, he finally understood his brother’s perspective on his sneaking out in the middle of the night to be with Ruby. Knowing your sibling was out there alone without backup, possibly endangering themselves…hell. So yeah, he’d been a little frantic when he’d yelled up the stairs, awakening the entire house (consisting of the Slayer and a very irate ex-librarian).  
  
Knowing Dean’s foundation for self-restraint had never been all that sturdy, Sam had been terrified that his brother had gone to seek out a willing woman. A horny Dean that might well have been turning into a creature that fed off sex was a recipe for disaster. Buffy had assured him that she could track the elder Winchester’s movements, and hopefully bring him back before he could damage himself or anyone else.  
  
The phone had rung nearly twenty minutes ago, and that _had_ to have been a good sign, right? Sam had been just a second too slow on picking up the receiver in the family room. He’d heard only “…fine.” before the line had gone dead. Thankfully, Giles had taken pity on Sam and informed him that Buffy had located his brother and was bringing him home. With the situation resolved, the Englishman returned to the upstairs guest room, mumbling something Sam couldn’t quite catch about kids and all hours of the night.  
  
When Sam ( _finally!_ ) caught a flash of headlights pulling into the driveway, he took three giant steps to reach the front door, opening it to allow Buffy to bring Dean in the house. She carried him in her arms, bridal style across the threshold as if his six foot tall brother weighed no more than a child. Sam couldn’t imagine having that kind of physical strength. Jake had. Sam’s back twinged in phantom pain as he remembered the sting of the soldier’s shiv entering his spine, the whiteness that had exploded behind his eyes, and he’d felt just like he was floating. Later, Sam figured that the lightness of his body had come from Dean supporting his weight, just as Buffy was supporting Dean now.  
  
“Is he…?” Sam’s voice trailed off, any further words catching in the anxiety that blocked his vocal cords.  
  
She nodded, and Sam released his breath, finally allowing himself to relax just a little. “He fell asleep on the way back here. Do you want to help me get him to bed?”  
  
“Yeah. I—yeah.”  
  
The blonde gave him a small, reassuring smile and carried his brother to the guest room they’d been using as his prison. Sam cringed. He knew how much Dean hated to be cooped up, how restless he got. It was a testament to how worried his brother must be to have put up with it for as long as he did.  
  
“Was he…? When you found him? It gets worse if he feeds it.” Sam’s hazel eyes were huge and wide and terrified, and Buffy really wanted to tell him that no, she hadn’t found Dean cock-deep in a vampire. She let the look in her eyes be all the explanation the younger man needed, and Sam growled his disapproval at Dean’s actions.  
  
“Come on, Sam. He needs his rest,” urged Buffy gently.  
  
“Yeah, okay. Just—how could he be so _stupid_? What was he thinking?” Sam’s exasperation was palpable, and he looked like he was about to start pacing again. She knew it was just worry, but he really needed to calm down or he’d wake Dean up.  
  
They got the older Winchester into the guest room and lay him down on top of the sheets. Dean stirred in his sleep, rubbing himself against the bed. It was suddenly much warmer in the room than it was moments ago. Sam’s skin tingled and his cock filled at the sight of Dean wantonly grinding into the mattress, half-hard against the denim of his jeans. Buffy felt it too, the change in the room’s atmosphere, her nipples constricting despite the warmth. They both wanted to reach down and touch Dean, wanted to bring him to the most earth-shattering zenith he’d ever known.  
  
Buffy licked her lips as if they were dry. “I should, um, get with the sleeping. Sleep good. Yeah.” Buffy excused herself and fled the room, terrified of the depth of want she’d been experiencing.   
  
Sam was left alone in the room with his brother. He stood several feet from the bed, not trusting himself to get any closer while Dean was at least partially conscious, undulating in sinuous rhythms against the mattress. The draw was much stronger when his brother was awake, beating against Sam’s flesh like Dean was his own sun, and everyone else was merely in orbit around him. Dean’s skin was covered in a shimmering patina of perspiration, and his long sleeved thermal shirt was sticking to his chest, showing the hard lines of the body beneath it. God, Dean smelled so good. Sam could feel the change as his dick went from half-mast to a full-on erection. It felt full and throbbed to the beat of his heart.  
  
Dean’s eyes cracked open, small slits that showed irises nearly glowing with amber-green intensity, gem-like in their luster. Dean felt like he was starving for sex, the same craving he’d had for a chili cheese dog with the works after weeks on that friggin’ master cleanse, the same _need_ he’d had when he’d been trapped in an underwater cave unable to draw breath for fear of drowning. A desperate, do-anything-to get-it desire. Dean felt like a stranger in his own body, craving things he had no earthly cause to want. Things that made him feel like he would never be able to scrub himself clean.  
  
There was a strange sensation behind his eyes as they focused on Sam. His little brother was watching over him with a fierce protectiveness. Dean’s heart did a little flip-flop when he realized that, just like a few days ago, this was _Sam_ again. Not the boy king, or the man bent on revenge, or any of a hundred other things Sam _could_ have been. This was Sam, the brother he thought he’d lost for good. He was kind of twisted inside, but Jesus fuck, the fact that Sam was here for him…it really turned him on.  
  
Yeah, his brain was still pretty sleep-fogged, but it was like Sam was the fucking oasis in the desert of Dean’s life. Sex-starved, he writhed on the mattress, making small needy noises as he ground his body against the bed. Dean couldn’t deny (even though he desperately wanted to) that his body had changed because of the venom flooding his veins. People reacted to him differently, as if he were producing pheromones or something. And it was making his brother attracted to him; the idea made Dean so horny he could come in his pants.  
  
“Sam,” said Dean, voice slow and quiet, like he didn’t quite trust that this was real. The scary fact was that Dean _needed_ this to be real.  
  
“Yeah, Dean. I’m here,” reassured Sam. Dean’s voice worked directly on his hard-on, and made him realize how much he desperately needed to get laid.  
  
It had been a long time for Sam, since that hot medical examiner from the siren gig they’d handled in Iowa—Cara, that had been her name—and when he was with Ruby there was always a part of him that felt so violated that he was never satisfied afterward. More often than not, he’d turned her down for anything more sexual than licking the blood from her self-inflicted wounds. Bottom line? Sam’s hand had made real good friends with his cock. He was used to going without. For a long time after Jess had died, he’d simply had no interest in other women, but she would have wanted him to have somebody he could care about. The problem was, there was no one he cared more about than Dean, and with this succubus thing, that brotherly love was turning decidedly non-brotherly and his sexual deprivation was coming around to kick him in the ass. Or more accurately, the groin.  
  
Sam took deep breaths to try to calm himself down. Dean didn’t really want this. It was the infection influencing his brother’s brain. Hell, _he_ didn’t want this either. He was pretty sure he didn’t. Well maybe he’d thought about it a little recently, but Dean definitely didn’t want the main event, regardless of how much his older brother might hypothetically enjoy the opening act. And Sam sure as Hell didn’t want to see his brother as cursed as he was, filled with demonic blood.  
  
Dean could see the tension in Sam’s hugely broad shoulders, and he was trying so hard to control himself for Sam’s sake. “Please Sam, I don’t—I don’t want to be a monster, man. Look, if you can’t…I get it. You can have Buffy take care of it. But please, Sammy. I can’t fight this anymore. You were right, I’m not strong enough.”  
  
“Dean, shut up,” Sam rebutted. “You are the strongest person I know.”  
  
“Get out of here, Sam. I don’t know how long I can hold it in.” Dean’s face was drawn and haggard, illustrating the truth of his words. Sam could see what it was costing him to restrain the calling in his blood. Call it a contrary streak, but Dean’s imploring tone only made Sam more obstinate to stay. Sam sat heavily down on the bed, his weight making the springs creak and the displacement was severe enough to make his brother’s body come in contact with his. He touched his hand to Dean’s forehead and found it fever-hot. Sam’s fingers ghosted down his brother’s cheek and came to rest comfortingly on Dean’s muscular shoulder.  
  
Dean took a shuddering breath, and when he released it, there was an air of surrender to the action. Their heartbeats synced up as skin touched skin; only the lightest touch of Sam’s huge hand on his arm and Dean suddenly couldn’t hold on to the part of him that was trying to break from its fetters. Sam’s eyes were half-lidded, and he sucked in his breath when he felt Dean’s free hand fumble with the fastening of his pants, the rough contact almost more than his suddenly sensitized body could stand. Dean had the button popped and Sam’s fly half unzipped before he paused, glowing emerald eyes fixed on his brother, regarding him speculatively.   
  
Every fiber of Sam’s body was drawn taut and tingling. He couldn’t help but imagine how he would feel pressed against every inch of his brother’s fevered flesh. Somewhere in some hidden crevice of his mind, Sam realized that this might not be entirely his own will. Dean had sex powers now and wasn’t that just totally damn appropriate.   
  
Sam might have let out an entirely un-masculine sound as his brother again moved into action and reached up toward him, encircling Sam’s neck with strong arms and pulling him to the mattress. The younger Winchester complied without hesitation, positioning himself carefully over Dean like a six-foot-four blanket of soft skin and hard muscles. Dean’s lips pressed into his and suddenly Sam couldn’t think and that had never happened before, but he embraced the feeling. If he couldn’t think, he couldn’t worry about how this would affect them in the morning.  
  
Their first kiss—first and possibly last, if Sam would come to his senses and run the Hell away—was desperate and hurried, a frenzied struggle of _needwanttakehave_. They kissed like they fought, each of them attempting to gain the upper hand, to take control and make the other submit. Dean had initiated it, and that gave him the high ground, but Sam was bigger, and he was on top. Dean's tongue plundered his brother’s mouth, and Sam finally understood the shameless grins of all those girls the morning after they’d been with his brother. Dean was fucking _good_ at this. Sam’s mouth was full of his brother’s tongue, rubbing it with his own with a mindless need he's never felt before.  
  
Sam made a small noise that might have become a moan when it grew up. He rested one elbow against the bed, easing the weight he was putting on Dean, and ran the other down his brother’s body from arm to chest to hip to thigh, urging him to open his legs. Dean acquiesced easily, spreading and allowing Sam’s body to come in even closer contact with his own. Sam took the moment to seize control of their kiss, forcing himself inside Dean, sweeping his tongue into his brother with forceful, sure strokes. When the elder man growled, Sam smiled into Dean’s mouth and pulled back slightly, grabbing Dean’s lower lip between his teeth. When Sam bit down gently, it was like an electric current arced though his brother’s body.  
  
“Fuck, Sam!” exclaimed Dean. “Kinda figured you for pretty vanilla, dude.”  
  
Sam arched an eyebrow at Dean. He’d show him exactly how vanilla he _wasn’t_. “Guess you don’t know me as well as you thought,” he said slyly. They wanted the same thing, and neither of them cared just then if the feelings were artificially induced or simply amplified from was already existed between them. If Sam’s brain had been working properly, he might have been able to admit to himself that it was a perverse mixture of both.  
  
They were each a heartbeat away from orgasm, shaking with the struggle to hold themselves back. Sam arched his back as he felt his brother’s hands beneath his shirts, unwrapping him deftly with an efficiency born of long years of practice—with girls sure, but also as an acting medic on the front lines of their family’s war against the supernatural. Sam had lost count of the number of times those hands had been gentle on his skin as Dean stitched up cuts and gashes. Now they had an entirely different effect on him. Dean threw the tangled wad of undershirt, dark red button-down and hoodie into a pile at the foot of the bed.  
  
The cool air on his bare chest created gooseflesh down Sam’s arms and puckered his nipples to hard nubs. Dean leaned in toward Sam’s chest; the heat came first, then the seductive wetness of his brother’s tongue laving each in turn. Jess had tried that, back when they’d first been dating, but it wasn’t an erogenous zone for him then. Now when Dean sucked on that puckered skin, the sensations sent a jagged spike of electricity directly to Sam’s dick. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this turned on.   
  
Seeing Dean beneath him with his fucking amazing lips pressed to his flesh made Sam’s cock strain. Dean’s hands were never still. They traced his tattoo, the devil’s trap above his heart, marking the fact that Sam’s body belonged only to Sam, that no demon could ever get inside and take what was rightfully his. Except now that body belonged to Dean as well. The fastening of Sam’s jeans was an annoyance Dean swiftly remedied with a quick tug and a pull, and then Sam was helping him push the rough material down his legs, wriggling and writhing until his underwear and jeans had joined his shirts in the clothing graveyard.  
  
Dean withdrew from Sam’s chest and crashed instead against his lips, forceful and demanding and God best of all, controlling. Sam just had to let it happen, that’s all he could think about. Just letting his sexy, commanding brother have his way with him, whether it be up, down, or sideways. Sam’s head lolled back as he let Dean kiss him boneless, almost so far gone that he didn’t hear his brother when he spoke.  
  
“Come on, Sam, I thought you were going to show me your kinky side. Wanna see what you’ve got, little brother.” The elder’s pants and boxer-briefs had somehow vanished, and Sam thought maybe he had a vague recollection of hands on rough denim somewhere between the feel of Dean’s lips and his own ecstasy. As Dean pulled his giant of a brother toward him flush and skin to delicious skin, Sam could only rejoice. Their cocks slid against each other until they found a rhythm both found acceptable. It was rough at first, but the precome leaking from their dicks provided lubrication enough that they didn’t rub themselves raw. Sam dragged his teeth down the side of Dean’s neck, feeling his brother periodically lose his pace as he shivered. “Fuck,” he breathed. Sam took that as a sign to continue. Without slowing his pace, Sam sucked forcefully at the skin of his brother’s throat, just where it junctioned with his shoulder. His only answer was Dean’s sharp intake of breath.  
  
Pressure was starting to build in his balls, and Sam had no idea how Dean had held out this long, but he knew his brother was close too from the way his cock had thickened and the small tremors light as butterfly wings against Sam’s skin.  
  
“Ready, Dean?” asked Sam, looking directly into Dean’s eyes. Eyes that were now irrefutably _glowing_ , very much like phosphorescent algae at night.  
  
“Do it,” came the answering growl.  
  
Sam gripped his brother’s hip with one hand and grabbed a handful of hair with the other, tilting Dean’s head back as he bit down on his brother’s shoulder hard. Dean cried out, strangled by the realization that he did _not_ want to wake anybody up just then. Sam increased the force and speed of his strokes and his balls clenched up, releasing themselves as Sam reached orgasm. Dean followed only a second after, jets of warmth filling the space between them.  
  
When it ended they collapsed in each other's arms, Sam shirtless and both of them sticky with come and sweat. Sam was exhausted, collapsing into slumber almost immediately; Dean was energized, electricity racing though every nerve so hot it burned, searing away his humanity. It wasn’t quite pain, and was almost akin to pleasure, as if aftershocks of orgasm were still tracing through his limbs. And then it changed, abruptly intensified. Dean tore off his shirt as the sensation flooded him. It was every climax he’d ever had, all at once. It was agony and ecstasy. It was maddening. Any last vestige of mortality died then, in the seconds it took Dean to frantically race to the bathroom from his brother’s side.  
  
The face he saw in the bathroom mirror was his, mostly; the rest was more like Michelangelo’s representation of the ideal, chiseled and cut like a perfect marble statue with no scars to mar his beauty. Even his arm was clean of Castiel’s handprint. His eyes were an inhuman color, golden, with traces of grass green exploding like a starburst of spring from his pupils, and emitting a muted light. As he stared at himself in horror and fascination, his body gave one final push; the bliss it created caused his vision to white out. When he’d recovered from the intensity of the feeling, Dean found his transformation complete, having given birth to black bat-like wings that filled the small bathroom and two pairs of tiny spiraled horns high on his forehead, almost hidden by his hairline.   
  
Covered in a layer of sweat and come and nothing else, he cautiously examined his reflection. His erection, a constant companion for the last several days, had finally subsided, but Dean would have welcomed it back, preferred the constant need to this. His mind was clear again, and God he wished it wasn’t. For once in his goddamned life, why couldn’t Sam have listened to him? Christ, he’d just fucked his brother, his responsibility…the one person on this Earth he was here to protect, to ensure nothing evil ever touched. He was sickened that he’d allowed it to happen, and more that he wanted to do it again every day for the rest of his damned life.   
  
Dean retched, stomach voiding itself into the basin as the waves of nausea rolled through him. He deserved this demonic appearance, his outsides finally matching the monster he held within—but between one heartbeat and the next both wings and horns had vanished and the glow of his eyes dimmed, leaving only their altered golden-green color behind to speak of the change.  
  
Dean, disgusted with what he’d allowed himself to do, needed to get as far from his brother as Sunnydale would allow. Grabbing clothing from the pile at the foot of the guest bed, he fled the house silently, intending to take a walk, and while the nighttime air should have been chilly (damn it, he _remembered_ the feeling from not an hour ago), he was unaffected by the cold. Walking without purpose, Dean tried desperately not to think about anything. He was good at denial and better at lying, especially to himself. While his mind wandered (do you know how hard it is to think of nothing?), his feet seemed to know where they were going, and they stopped him in front of a club.   
  
This one was different from the one he’d been at earlier, its atmosphere almost vaguely reminiscent of the bar in Michigan. The sign above the door reads Argent, and the hard rock music is pulsing against his body like Sam’s heartbeat had minutes ago. _Thump-thump, thump-thump_. Something in his chest twitched and his spine prickled. There was a strange scent in the air, something almost familiar, and Dean followed it inside.   
  
Every single woman there, and shit, even most of the dudes, looked up as he entered, which was really fucking disconcerting, having that many eyes on him when he was used to flying under the radar, unnoticed by the crowd. He’d learned to keep a low profile when the situation demanded it, and he mourned the loss of that ability. The same thing had happened at _Solid Gold_ now that he thought about it, but though he’d been noticed, there had been an aversion to him then. The crowd had seemed genuinely uncomfortable, almost afraid of him. That wasn’t the case here. The club was packed, and Dean felt like a piece of meat the way he was being groped.  
  
There was a scent in the air, something savory, like oregano and woman, and Dean jerked his head up in the direction of the smell. Through the gyrating throng of sweet humanity, he noticed a brunette in the shadowed corner, watching him from under thick bangs and smiling a smug smile. She looked familiar, and suddenly she winked and a pulse of _something_ hit him and he was horny as hell, and he remembered where he recognized her from. Strugis. That was the succubus that bit him.  
  
Dean narrowed his eyes and his hand went for the Colt 1911 he had tucked into the waist of his jeans as he strode toward her. He had a lot of practice ignoring his arousal, but now…shit. He was affecting other people. The crowd was too thick to simply push though, and a nearby group of people, affected by the pheromones his excited state was producing, descended upon him, touching and moving their bodies against his. By the time Dean had shoved them all away, she’d had time to quietly exit through the rear.  
  
Frustrated, furious and still fucking horny, he traveled back to Buffy’s house. He didn’t want to deal with Sam just then, couldn’t bear to face the brother he’d betrayed with his unnatural desire. Sam was still crashed out in the guest room he’d been using, smelling of sweat and come and Dean. Freaking hell, he could smell himself on the kid.

Tearing himself away, Dean instead went to the family room and pulled out the hide-a-bed. That solution was only marginally better, since he could still smell his brother on the sheets. The bed was pervaded with the essence of Samness, and it was all Dean could do to stop himself from rubbing against the sheets. What the fuck was he going to do? Until he figured something out, his body was screaming at him to sleep, the first real sleep he’d been able to get in days. Sam probably wouldn’t wake till much later in the day, which would allow Dean at least some time to get himself under control.

 

Fuck.


	7. Chapter 7

When Dean awoke it was still dark outside, though the sky was shading toward indigo, indicating the imminent sunrise. He stretched carefully, taking a mental inventory of the state of his body. He felt good. Surprisingly good, really. His body felt limber and loose, as if he hadn’t spent the night on a lumpy pull out mattress. Yeah, he had morning wood, but it would be unusual waking up without it. It was like the last few days had never happened, and he could imagine that the events of last night had been a nightmare, a product of his fucked up head. Some jacked up combination of venom and the desire to have his family close to him.  
  
He was still dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday (this morning?), but when he got up to take a piss, he realized that it didn’t fit properly. The undershirt was too tight around his chest and arms, and his jeans hung too loose around his hips; the only thing holding them up was the jutting lines of his hipbones. After he’d drained the lizard, he lifted his t-shirt to inspect himself in the bathroom mirror. He was paler, his skin almost translucent, showing a fine tracery of blue veins beneath the surface. There were no marks on him, anywhere. No scars, no handprint, and no tattoo. But what really made Dean’s jaw drop was the deeply cut six pack of his abdomen. Yeah, he’d been in shape before, but between greasy diner burgers and his pie addiction, he’d _never_ been able to manage that kind of definition. He groaned and scrubbed a hand though his sleep-mussed hair, making it stand even farther on end.  
  
Well, hell. So much for the past few days being a dream; his new physique was an unwanted reminder of how real his situation was. He was…well, he didn’t know quite what he was. Changed, undoubtedly. Succubus? That was the general consensus, though Dean thought males were known as incubi. He was pretty sure he’d seen a porno dealing with them once before.   
  
Despite everything, for all he felt normal now, he was a monster. He knew that unnatural urges dwelt within him. Dean might not feel any different now, but everything needed to eat. He was terrified that when the time came, he would see humans as meat, destroying the very people he’d been raised to protect. Hell, he’d already had sex with his brother, and he’d liked it. He was totally going to Hell, again. If he’d had the courage, Dean would have killed himself already, and spared Sam from having to take him out.  
  
But damn it, despite his angelic visitations, Dean knew where he’d end up, and he couldn’t face the Pit. Not again. He’d come so close to losing himself there the last time, and sometimes he imagined that a chunk of himself hadn’t come back to life with the rest of him.  
  
Stomach growling, he put aside his morbid thoughts, lowered his shirt, and headed to the kitchen. He found Buffy already there, attempting to cook breakfast. Dean prided himself on being able to eat anything, but Buffy’s culinary skills put that to the test. Giles had mentioned that she had improved over the years, but every meal still felt like a game of Russian roulette. Dean liked to live dangerously, but there were limits. At least he finally felt well enough to join her in the kitchen, instead of having meals taken to him. The petite blonde acknowledged him with a curt nod, half-stirring the pancake batter.  
  
“Hey, you're up. You look…better this morning. I mean—” She looked up at him and considered, catching her lower lip between her teeth, unsure of how exactly to phrase her thoughts. “You seem more in control. Not so much with the whole ‘I want to have sex with anything that moves and some things that don’t’ thing.”  
  
If she only knew, Dean pondered morosely.  
  
His eyes were glued to the lip Buffy had captured, because he was still a _guy_ damn it, and he'd have to be dead not to notice Buffy. “I won’t jump your bones. At least not in public. Well, maybe only if you ask _really_ nicely,” he promised with a grin, grabbing a plate from the table and helping himself to heaping portions of the already-prepared scrambled eggs and sausage links. He tried desperately not to think of how hot she looked with bed hair, wavy and slightly mussed. She wore her nightclothes still. Her pajama shorts and white camisole exposed slender arms and legs that were a contradiction to the power in her muscles. Dean imagined how she’d feel on top of him, bouncing on his cock like a pogo stick.  
  
Buffy licked her lips, her eyes going a bit glassy as she regarded him. Dean snuck a glance at her breasts, which were a nice handful crowned with rock hard nipples clearly delineated by the thin fabric of her nightclothes. He wondered if the skin beneath the soft cotton fabric was as silky as it looked. He swiftly tramped down his thoughts, thinking desperately of some of the ugly sons of bitches he’d hunted. He cursed to himself as he realized he could make someone want him just by wanting _them_. Before this had happened, he would have thought that seemed like a pretty sweet deal. Now it felt like a violation. He felt dirty, unclean, _tainted_ because of what he could do to other people.  
  
She shook her head as if to clear it and resumed stirring the pancake batter, and if her thoughts wandered to Dean’s hot body, to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, at least she gave no outward sign. It took a rare man to be able to match a Slayer’s desires in bed, and she doubted he was among them, all bragging aside. She’d found out with Riley that humans, even enhanced humans, couldn’t keep up with Slayer endurance. Hell, she could probably outpace ten guys. She didn’t expect Dean Winchester to make it past two rounds.  
  
“Morning,” called Sam, as he entered the room. He wore his boxers and a clean gray cotton t-shirt that clung to his upper body. Dean groaned, swallowing hard against the dryness of his mouth and wondered if that occurred in the same laundry mishap that had shrunk his favorite jeans, or if Sam had just been working out. A lot. Objectively, Sam looked like USDA certified Grade A beef. His hair was rumpled by sleep and sex, brunet strands sticking up in multiple directions. Buffy groaned too, for what she imagined were entirely different reasons (man, would she be surprised). If she ever let herself fall for a human again, it might be for someone like Sam or Dean Winchester, wounded but still standing men, with problems too big even for their wide shoulders. And what nice shoulders they were.  
  
Sam’s eyes flicked to Dean briefly, and he hesitated for a nearly imperceptible moment in the doorway, but joined them in the kitchen. He and Dean pointedly avoided eye contact. As Buffy poured the pancake batter onto the hot skillet, she worried that the brothers had a fight last night after she’d brought the elder brother home with vampire dust still in his hair and on his clothes.   
  
“Good morning, Sam,” she replied. Dean grunted what might have been a greeting if it dressed up as a caveman for Halloween. He didn’t look up at his brother.  His eggs were suddenly extremely interesting.  
  
Everyone else had left sometime in the intervening hours, their own lives and concerns stealing them away from trying to save Dean, or at least get a better understanding of what was happening to him. Giles had left early that morning to meet with a contact the Council had referred him to, leaving the three of them alone in the house. He'd mentioned something to Buffy about coming home sometime in the afternoon, but he could just as easily get himself lost in research material. She’d rarely seen him this excited about the weird shit they used to deal with on a daily basis. Maybe he’d missed it more than she’d realized.  
  
It was obvious that something had happened between the two Winchesters last night after she'd fled Dean's influence. Now that she thought about the strange buzz she was getting from Dean, she could perceive the difference. The low level hum that he’d been setting off thrummed though her now much more strongly than last night. It wasn't quite the feeling she got from demons or vampires, but it was...a similar awareness of him, of his position relative to hers. This awareness was also tinted with _awareness_. Of Dean the male, not just Dean the dumbass who’d gotten infected by succubus venom.  
  
“You turned, didn’t you?” she realized, a look in her eyes that wasn’t quite accusation, though it might be a great-aunt or a second cousin twice removed. Sam turned away, his jaw clenching.  Buffy most certainly wasn't imagining what Dean had gotten himself up to after she'd left.  No sir.  Definitely not.  
  
“I feel fine,” Dean replied defensively. “Better than I have since that succubitch bit me.”  
  
“That’s what worries me,” she sighed. “If you’ve changed, you’ll need to feed. We know that much at least. Bacon and eggs breakfasts won’t cut it anymore. When I left, you were _fine_ , what happened?”  
  
“I’m suddenly not hungry,” he said around a mouthful of egg and sausage, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk with a hoard of nuts, giving lie to his words. Dean Winchester had a better relationship with food than he did with any woman alive.  
  
“We’ve prepared for this eventuality, dude,” began Sam, carefully staring at his food.  
  
“No, Sammy. Just—no.”

  
“How is it any different from what you do most nights? The bars and the women? Hell, man, you used to live for that!” Sam’s voice was raised, almost like he was angry, but for Dean’s sake he was still refusing to look at his brother. Maybe it was his own too, because he didn’t want to see if there was accusation in his brother’s jewel-like amber eyes.  
  
“Because it is!” Dean glared up, his eyes shooting sparks in his anger. “What if the only reason people agree is because I need them to? That’s rape, Sam! What if I lose control and end up doing something I regret?” Again. The word left unspoken hung between them, a big ass elephant in the room that only those with the surname Winchester could perceive, and Sam could feel its weight pressing against him. Sam’s jaw slammed shut, clenched. His throat worked in that way it always did when he wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything that would ameliorate the situation.  “What if I can't stop man?  What if I...what if I kill someone?”  
  
Buffy looked from Dean to Sam and back, and it sank in. Oh. _Ohhhh_. Dean had been human last night. Sexed out and potentially on the verge, but he hadn’t changed. But sometime between then and now, he had. Combined with their careful aversion to each other now? Buffy might not be math girl, but she could put two and two together, and the solution was the kind of brotherly love she didn’t want to examine too closely. She couldn’t say that the thought of two hot guys together didn’t turn her on though. Okay, so she had kinks, who didn’t?  She carefully compartmentalized, shoving those particular thoughts away and focusing on what was actually pertinent to the situation at hand.  
  
“Can it, both of you,” she said, forestalling their argument. “Look, Giles went to meet with a folklore expert who came highly recommended by the Council. We’ll see if he found out anything in a few hours.” She gazed at the elder brother, and the sympathy Dean saw in her eyes pissed him off something fierce. She smiled sadly. “My friend Oz was bitten by a werewolf when we were in high school. It took him a long time, but eventually he learned to control the change, to keep his consciousness during the days around the full moon. Maybe Dean can too. Just because you’ve changed doesn’t mean you’ve lost your humanity.”  
  
The brothers’ eyes widened at that. It went against everything they’d been taught, everything they’d experienced firsthand. But with enough willpower? Sam figured it was possible. Dean was damaged, certainly, and not as strong as he'd been before his sojourn south, but he’d always been a determined bastard. If anyone could do it, it was his brother.  
  
“Here, the pancakes are done.”  She set the plates down in front of the boys. The pancakes were in the shape of Mickey Mouse, complete with blueberry eyes and smiles. Dean smiled up at her in thanks; already feeling less tightly wound, he took a gigantic bite off Mickey’s right ear. “I used to make them this way for my little sister, when she wasn’t being a total brat.” Her voice was nostalgic.  
  
“You miss her,” observed Sam, keeping his tone gentle and undemanding.  
  
Buffy nodded. “She’s away at college. With the money coming in from the Council, we were able to afford anywhere she wanted to go, but she got a scholarship to Yale. She’s studying linguistics.”   
  
“Wow, that’s great,” said Sam.  
  
Dean shook his head. “Family should stay together,” he muttered.  
  
Sam shot his brother a glare. They’d had this discussion before several times, until they were both sick of it. Then they’d argued some more. He was smart enough to avoid giving Dean the fight he was spoiling for.  
  
“I wanted her to have the opportunity to go. I never got to finish college because my mom…” Buffy’s voice caught in her throat. Even after all these years, her loss was still devastating. “She passed away; I had to get a job to support Dawn. It was a hard couple of years. Look guys, I have some errands to run, but I’ll give you some sage advice. I don’t know what happened between you last night, but you need to kiss and make up because now is not the time to be at each other’s throats like this. Suck it up and move on.”  
  
The men gaped at her comically, Dean with half-chewed pancake nearly falling out of his mouth.  
  
Tossing the mixing bowl and spatula into the sink, Buffy head “Oh, one more thing, you guys are _so_ doing the dishes today.”  
  
When the blonde had left the room, Sam offered his olive branch first because he knew Dean would never initiate the apology/love-fest/chick-flick-moment. He sighed heavily. “We’re cool, right?”  
  
“Yeah. We’re cool.”  
  
They weren’t, of course. Not yet. But they were going to be.  
  
\---  
  
By pure serendipity both Giles and Buffy returned to her house just before noon, and the four of them gathered in the family room. The hostess and her two guests took a seat on her green couch, while Giles took the armchair across the coffee table. Buffy placed herself between the brothers in her usual spot, broken in from a few years of flopping her weight in that area to cuddle up with some Ben and Jerry’s and a silly rom-com. Plus, being sandwiched between _that_ much hotness? Who wouldn’t take advantage?  
  
“Ok Giles, spill,” urged Buffy, sitting cross legged and leaning slightly forward in interest.  
  
“As you know, I spoke with colleagues about Dean’s condition,” began Giles, eyeing the older brother warily. He didn’t quite trust that the transformation hadn’t somehow made Dean increasingly dangerous to be around. Dean had insisted, multiple times, that he felt great, so eventually they’d let the matter drop in light of the man’s growing frustration.  
  
“While you were avoiding Xander and Willow,” interjected Buffy. “Who say ‘Hi’ by the way.”  
  
The elder man grimaced. “I wasn’t avoiding—“  
  
“Giles,” Buffy interrupted, “you were totally being avoidy.”  
  
“Yes, well, that’s beside the point.”  
  
Buffy grinned her victory, sharing the infectious smile with Sam and Dean. The ex-librarian was amusingly flustered.  
  
“From what we’ve been able to determine from cross-referencing lore from various parts of the world is that Mr. Winchester here has indeed become a type of succubus, or rather, a being closely associated with the common interpretation of them. Succubi are generally regarded as exclusively female creatures. The mara, a subspecies of succubus, originally resided in the Nordic regions before immigrating to North America during the time of the Vikings, and were both male and female.”  
  
Dean sucked in a breath, recognizing the name.  The pointy-toothed waitress had called herself Mara.  
  
Giles continued as if he hadn’t noticed anything. “The mara are creatures who specialize in dreams and nightmares, conducting noctural visitations with mortals and leaving them exhausted and covered in sweat by the morning. When the mara feed, they do some from a...erm, s-submissive position. Erm…they f-feed off their partner’s orgasm, siphoning it into sustenance for them. Their allure makes them all but irresistible. When they take too much energy, visit the same person too often, the human tends to weaken and die.”  
  
The elder Winchester leaned back, putting his arms behind his head. “So. I’m irresistible, huh?”  
  
Giles, Buffy and Sam shared a groan.  
  
\---  
  
Even after the knowledge dump the scholar had heaped on them, Dean felt good. Really damn good. Better, in fact, than he had that morning, since a lot of his preoccupation with what had happened to him had vanished. Maybe he should be worried about the fact that he wasn’t worried, but he was just too busy enjoying the peacefulness inside him. There was no underlying thrum of _needsexnow_ , no hallucinations of his brother or their new blonde friend in compromising positions (well, no more than was usual for him anyway, he _was_ Dean Winchester after all).  
  
By early evening, Dean was feeling a bit hungry, his stomach protesting its empty state loudly. He padded into the kitchen, leaving the others in the family room, watching old horror movies and offering up color commentary. He opened the refrigerator door, hoping to find some leftovers he could snag that might not be missed.  
  
He pulled out some ham slices from the meat drawer and closed the refrigerator door. When he turned around to grab the bread, Castiel was beside him. From the corner of his eye, Dean observed the warrior of God. The angel was regarding him with a mixture of confusion and what may have passed for concern among their kind. His tie was askew and his hair was stylishly mussed as always. The angel’s clear blue eyes were narrowed, as if seeing beyond what was physically manifested.  
  
“Dean,” greeted the angel. “My mark is no longer on you.” Castiel appeared to stare at Dean’s upper arm, where he had taken hold of Dean’s soul in Hell and dragged it screaming back to Earth. The soul had been slashed, bruised, beaten past its breaking point, but it had begun to heal. Castiel’s brand had held the soul together until it was strong enough to stand on its own. But it was no longer present; it had been replaced by a swirling darkness trailing from Dean’s heart to his groin. The angel was…worried.  
  
Dean’s body jerked around to face the intruder. By this point, he was almost used to Castiel appearing out of nowhere, seemingly just to annoy him. The angel’s voice was deep, and his brows were drawn in apprehension.  
  
“Apparently that’s because I’m a succubus now, Cas,” Dean replied, feeling cocky and playful.  
  
Castiel considered that for a moment. “This was not foretold.”  
  
“Foretold?” scoffed Dean, growing upset now and glaring at the angel though narrowed amber eyes. “You mean some angelic whacko is going around prophesying our lives? What freaking gives you guys the right to play with us like puppets dancing on your strings? I thought God was all about free will these days.”  
  
“The prophet is a man. Do not concern yourself with him; he is protected,” explained the angel, carefully skirting the question.  
  
“Yeah well, can your prophet see a way to fix this?” snapped Dean.  
  
Castiel shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I told you, Dean, this was not to be. Something has been altered. I know of few beings with that much power. I must seek revelation from my superiors.”  
  
“Yeah, well fat lot of help they’ve been so far. Why did you even come here?” asked Dean.  
  
The angel sighed wearily. “I came to seek your assistance with preventing the breaking of another seal. However, you are in no state to provide it. Self-sacrifice is a part of you Dean, but in this instance, look to yourself first.”  
  
“Yeah, I get it. I’m not good to you dead.” His voice was bitter and harsh, shards of broken glass beating into the angel.  
  
“Nevertheless, Dean, we need you. You _will_ stop it. I have faith in you. Perhaps you should attempt the same.”  
  
When Dean spun around to retort, the angel was gone. Yeah, that was about par for the friggin’ course. Leave it to the angels to kill his buzz.


	8. Chapter 8

Having spent most of the last couple nights on the too-short hide-a-bed, shortly after dinner Sam had claimed dibs on the guest room with unrestrained glee. Since Dean didn’t have to be locked up, _he_ could have the lumpy ass thing for a change. Not that Sam’s lanky frame fit the guest bed either, but it was an improvement. Though Buffy and Giles had gone to sleep, it was still early for the brothers, and they remained in the family room on the sofa, looking over the Codex and various other books and web pages for more information on mara succubi.  
  
Dean had been hungry most of the evening. Castiel’s appearance had pissed him off, but it hadn’t made him lose his appetite. No matter how much he ate, the gnawing in his stomach wouldn’t go away. It had actually gotten steadily worse, until it wasn’t so much hunger pangs as real pain. Dean set down the book he’d been halfheartedly skimming and leaned back, trying to ease the ache in his gut. He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to relax the tightened muscles.  
  
He glanced over in Sam’s direction on the opposite end of the couch. His younger brother was bent almost double over his laptop in apparent interest, strands of hair falling unheeded into his eyes. Something inside of Dean twitched. _No_ , he though desperately, forcing it to recede. He moved to get up from the couch in the same moment Sam said, “Take a look at this, Dean.” Sam gestured to the laptop’s screen.  
  
It was a bad idea, having Sam that close, but when Dean edged cautiously closer to his brother, the knot in his gut seemed to uncoil ever so slightly.  
  
“’The mare-witches, also known as the mara, worship the fallen angel Nahemah. The strength of a mare-witch can be judged by the number of horns they have,’” Sam read. “’Most often they possess two horns, occasionally three, and in rare cases four.’”  Sam looked askance at him. “Do you have horns, Dean?”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t appear that way does it, genius?”  
  
“Idiot,” Sam grumbled, smiling. He shoved his brother halfheartedly. The movement pulled his shirt tight against his torso, showing the rippling movements of his muscles. The hunger inside Dean flared again, and his cock twitched. Dean groaned quietly, and tried to pull away. Run away. Get the _fuck_ away from Sam and his own fucked up desires.  
  
A hand encircling his bicep stopped him. God, Sam's hands were friggin’ huge. Hell, all of Sam was huge, he thought, wincing as he remembered the night before. He’d sworn to himself that it was just a one-time thing, a bizarre product of what had happened to him. Damn it, he’d felt so much better today. The sensation of Sam’s warmth against him made Dean go kind of weak in the knees, and he sank into the sofa in acquiescence.  
  
Something smelled like spring in the room. Sam’s nose twitched. Like warm sun and growing things. Like the memory of the first taste of ice cream bought by his older brother as they strolled along the boardwalk of some coastal town. Hot and sweet, like childhood and home, and Sam wanted _more_.  
  
When it happened it was like a switch flipping. The hunger that Dean had been feeling all evening was transmuted to lust in the time it took for Sam to close the gap between them, breathing in Dean as if he were the very air he needed to live. Dean was painfully hard against the denim of his jeans, and pumping out pheromones like there was no tomorrow. If he didn’t end this, if he didn’t get laid, he was pretty damn sure he wouldn’t make it to see tomorrow.   
  
Sam was staring at him, jaw working like he was trying to refrain from saying anything. “Dean,” growled Sam though his need, desperately fighting the desire to jump his brother’s bones. Hot as Dean was, he wouldn’t do this. Dean didn’t want it; he’d said as much that morning. Hell, he’d said as much all evening with his body language, keeping distance between them, flinching away when Sam got close.   
  
A physical relationship was playing with fire, and it would end up destroying them. Sam wanted it though. Burned for it, and not only when Dean’s arousal triggered his own. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but when he thought about it, he’d wanted his brother near him for a long time now. Since Dean had brought him home from Stanford. Sam was home with Dean, the only home he’d ever known and the only one he wanted now. The most important person in his life. Even Ruby, who knew his darkness in ways he never wanted to share with the brother he idolized, was a shadow in comparison. Maybe he hadn’t ever imagined a sexual relationship, but he had craved a deeper connection with the only family he had left.  
  
Sam couldn’t move, torn between fear and desire for his brother, and that frightened him.  
  
Dean gritted his teeth as he observed the near panic in Sam’s huge hazel eyes. He tore his gaze from his brother and half-ran to the other side of the coffee table, using it as an obstacle between them. He ignored the spasm that almost doubled him over in agony. “I can’t stop it, Sam. Get Buffy,” he ordered, voice like Dad’s and damn if that just didn’t put the obstinate fight back into Sam. Dean wanted to die, and Sam refused to go through that again. The first few times had nearly destroyed him, and the last had caused him to seek solace in a demon’s embrace and blood.  
  
“No,” he spat into Dean’s face, voice a husky growl. “She won’t come near you.” The _or else_ hung unsaid between them, but both felt its weight. Dean was frozen in the headlights of Sam’s eyes. Sam stalked closer, his gait almost predatory, spurred on by Dean’s fear. The darkness in Sam _liked_ Dean’s fear. He checked it back, focusing on how much he wanted to help his brother instead. Sam stepped around the coffee table, so close now that they were almost touching by sheer proximity. He was inhaling deep breaths of _Dean_. His only thoughts were to protect Dean, to save Dean, _want, take, have_ Dean.  
  
The younger Winchester initiated it this time, whatever it was between them, what he’d been thinking about in the back of his mind all day. Sam’s huge hands cupped either side of Dean’s face, firm and almost gentle, before he drove his tongue deep and wet into his brother’s mouth, claiming him, branding him with a sweet hot iron searing into Dean's soul. When Dean broke the kiss, his eyes were glowing, throwing off sparks of gold in the dim room to provide nearly as much illumination as the table lamp.  
  
“Sam…” he began breathlessly. “Are you sure that it’s you that’s wanting this? I can’t…I can’t stop myself. I want….” His voice, harsh from desire and the pain of holding himself back, trailed off into the heavy silence of the room.  
  
The younger man nodded, reaching for the bottom of Dean’s now skintight shirt and slowly peeling it off. Each time a new inch of skin was exposed Sam would run rough hands across it, fingernails briefly leaving red weals on the rapidly-healing flesh. He took his time re-learning Dean's new body. Sam wanted to mark his brother up, leave scratches and purpling bruises that claimed Dean as his. Only ever his. “God, Dean. You look perfect,” whispered Sam hungrily.  
  
A bitter laugh caught in Dean’s throat as he gave himself over to the feeling of _Sam_. Touching him, being touched by him. He would give his brother a ride he’d never forget. The mara in him paced madly in the cage he’d built for it. He couldn’t shut down the hunger any longer, the biological need that marked him as something inhuman, but right now he wasn’t even thinking about it. His thoughts were caught up in his brother. The sensation of supple skin on skin was heady, and Sam’s left hand ghosted across Dean's exposed abs, the other reaching behind him to rest on his ass.   
  
Dean’s shirt was rucked up underneath his armpits, his jeans hanging lose and low on his hips. Without warning Sam’s left hand dropped to meet his right, and he lifted his brother up and carried him a few feet to the closest wall. Lips and tongues met again in mutual decision as Sam pressed their bodies together, battling for dominance. Sam pressed the advantage of his height and bulk, maneuvering Dean to where Sam needed him to be, and finally his brother went with it, leaning his head back slightly in bliss as the floppy haired brunet thrust against him. Even though their jeans, Sam’s dick felt enormous against his.  
  
Sam tore his mouth from his brother’s and growled hungrily before tearing Dean’s shirt over his head and latching on to Dean’s bared neck. The elder man gasped, bucking his hips forward as Sam suckled. The cotton shirt tangled around Dean’s arms, leaving them pinned together, not that he was struggling much to get free. God, having him in this position pushed about seventy-five percent of Sam’s buttons. What he planned to do to his brother next took care of the rest. He’d warned Dean that he was a kinky bastard.  
  
He laid Dean down face-up on the couch, tugging his pants off in a single smoothly efficient motion. The elder would have made a comment to express his profound shock that Saint Sammy had perfected that particular move, but all rational thought was forced from him when a wet heat surrounded his cock. Shocked, Dean realized that his baby brother had taken him into his mouth. Dean’s back arched and he grabbed the armrest behind his head to anchor himself. Dean had had more technically proficient, but this was different. This was Sammy. Sam was sloppy but enthusiastic, and Dean was already hyper-sensitized.  
  
As Sam ran his tongue along the underside of his brother’s cock, Dean’s eyes lolled back in his head and a groan fell from his lips. Sam brother pulled away for a few brief seconds to grin a devilish smile. Yeah. Sam knew exactly what he was doing to Dean. God damn.  
  
“Son of a bitch!” whimpered Dean as Sam’s hand curled around the base of his dick and jerked it in short firm pulls in time with the motion of his mouth. Dean didn’t have a monster the size of Sam’s but he was still shocked at how much his brother was able to swallow. He shook with the effort it took not to thrust the rest of the way inside, but he couldn’t bear hurting Sammy.  
  
With his other hand, Sam fondled his brother’s balls, rolling first one, then the other. Dean’s eyes were blazing meteors, lighting up the whole room with their eerie amber glow.  
  
“Sammy…” he moaned, long and low and drawn out, his voice like Sam’s old ratty teddy bear and sugar cereal with too much milk and all the things that Sam recognized as _home_. “Sammy, I’m gonna….” Dean was giving his brother time to pull back, but Sam didn’t budge, instead taking a firm grip on Dean’s ass and sucking his cock for all he was worth. Dean couldn’t hold himself back any longer, and came hard, exploding in his brother’s mouth. Sam tried his damnedest to swallow it all, but when he looked up at Dean, the blonde could see the pearly moisture that was running down his chin.   
  
Sam just smiled, wiping his mouth with Dean’s shirt, the bastard. He looked amazingly debauched, lips swollen and eyes half-lidded, and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever wanted anyone more. Sam returned his attention to his brother’s body, running his tongue lower than before, past Dean’s balls, lifting him up slightly to get a better angle on his goal, the puckered pink hole of his brother’s well-muscled ass.   
  
Dean jerked in surprise when the tip of Sam’s tongue came in contact with his opening, but the hungry need was still riding him and he wondered what it would be like to have Sam on top of him, inside of him, riding him to orgasm. The idea of giving himself to his brother completely made Dean hard again almost instantly. His forehead felt hot, and he knew that the four tiny spiraled horns had come out to play.  
  
Sam’s voice was low and lust-filled. “Liar. Four. You have four. You just had to be the damn king of the mara, didn’t you? Lying bastard,” he chuckled huskily. “Your horns are fucking hot, dude. I—I need you so fucking much, Dean. I don’t have any lube, so we’re going to do this nice and slow, okay?”  
  
Dean cocked his head at his little brother. Lube? “Just how many times have you done this, Sammy?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “More than once. Plus, Jess liked anal.”  
  
“I _knew_ I liked her for a reason.”  
  
“Here dude, turn over.” Sam’s voice was coaxing and firm. Dean latched on to it like a life raft. Yeah, so he was a bit nervous. Don’t judge. Sam helped him turn onto his stomach, finally extricating himself from his t-shirt and throwing it on the ground, wet spot up. Hell, that was one of his favorite shirts, he thought mournfully. His stomach gurgled and a wave of pain passed through him. Dean gritted his teeth and rode it out, trying not to let Sam see.  
  
“Gonna take care of you,” his little brother promised. He’d positioned Dean with one leg on and one leg off the couch, ass exposed. Sam carefully spread his cheeks wide and leaned in to lick his way from the base of Dean’s balls to his anus.  
  
“Holy shit, dude!” Dean’s whisper was violent and Sam started to back off.  “Don’t you fucking stop,” ordered Dean.  
  
Sam chuckled against the skin of his perineum, and Jesus Christ on a freaking pogo stick the vibration was like nothing he’d ever felt. His cock swelled even more, and he rocked his hips into the couch. Sam gripped his buttocks tighter, warningly. Regretfully, Dean stilled. He was rewarded with his brother’s tongue probing gently at his opening.  
  
He was slick with saliva and Sam’s tongue slid inside easily. “Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_ ,” whimpered Dean in bliss. “Is your tongue as long as your cock, Sammy? God damn.”  
  
Sam laughed again, the rumbly vibration going directly to Dean’s dick. He was half-surprised he wasn’t putting a hole in the damn couch with how hard he was. Sam was fucking him with his tongue, long, deep strokes with a tempo that was still leisurely enough to make Dean impatient. He felt good enough that the gut-wrenching hunger pains of a few minutes ago had faded to a dim memory. He was doing what it wanted, what it needed. Everything had to eat.  
  
Sam’s hands caressed up his back as he withdrew his tongue from his brother’s puckered rosebud. Dean was boneless, totally peaceful, and his brother’s warmth felt so good against his skin. Sam climbed carefully up Dean’s body, distributing his weight across his brother’s form. “You’re pretty relaxed, man,” Sam breathed in his ear, “but I want to make sure you can take me, okay?”  
  
Dean nodded. He thought that he might have agreed to anything right about then. Sam stuck his middle finger in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit. When it was thoroughly spit-slick, he reached down and inserted it slowly into Dean’s ass. Dean tensed up at first, but Sam murmured gently in his ear and he slowly unclenched his muscles. Sam’s finger seemed impossibly long, and Dean worried not for the first time where this was leading. Was he really going to let his little brother fuck him? _Yes!_ The mara inside him was eager for exactly that. It wanted Sam, and damn him to Hell, so did he.  
  
Sam was busying himself with sucking hard against the skin of Dean’s arm. Right where Castiel’s handprint used to be. Kinky bastard.  
  
Dean gasped as Sam’s finger stroked lightly across something inside of him. His brother grinned wickedly and did it again, pushing forward with increased pressure. “Sam!” cried Dean, voice harsh.  
  
“Shhh,” murmured Sam against Dean’s ear as he slid a second finger into his ass. “We don’t want to wake Giles up, do we?”  
  
“What about Buffy?” moaned Dean, half-curious and half…oh fuck, was that anticipation?  
  
“Maybe later,” Sam promised. “Right now you belong to me Dean, and I’m going to make sure everyone who looks at you knows it. Gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be walking funny for days.”  
  
Sam transitioned from slow shallow thrusts with both fingers to a scissoring motion, stretching the muscular ring still further. Dean had never imagined it would feel so good. When Stacy Phillips had stuck her pinky in his ass while giving him a blowjob freshman year it had been alright, but this? Holy fucking god damn shit. And Sam hadn’t even gotten to the main event.  
  
The younger man abandoned Dean’s muscular upper arm, trailing kisses and the occasional bite down his back until he reached his brother’s buttocks. With the hand that wasn’t up Dean’s ass, he slapped the exposed cheeks forcefully, leaving a hand shaped patch of reddened skin.  
  
“What the fu—“ Dean’s protest was cut off by Sam’s hand across his mouth. Sam curled his fingers against Dean’s prostate once again and stifled a laugh as his brother went cross-eyed.  
  
“Get on your knees,” ordered Sam, moving to help Dean into place. God he looked so hot, like an invitation to sin. Dean was propped up on his elbows with his knees underneath him, pointing his ass to the sky.  
  
Sam stroked him a few more times from that position before withdrawing his fingers. Dean mewled at the emptiness he felt at his brother’s absence. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got you,” he said before spitting into his hand and using the saliva to coat his dick.   
  
“Ready?” asked Sam, locking eyes with his transformed sibling. Mara? Whatever. He really didn’t care, he was just _Dean_ and Sam needed him almost desperately. And yeah, it wasn’t only the pheromones talking, wasn’t even mostly the pheromones talking.   
  
He’d never really been able to tell Dean about what had happened on all those Tuesdays, watching him die over and over and over again. How it had shredded him inside. How he’d promised himself he’d never let it happen again. How he’d stood helpless as the hellhounds devoured his brother and made him spend endless months believing that this time…this time was forever.  
  
Having Dean back, _having_ Dean? Was a goddamn fucking miracle.  
  
When the head of his brother’s dick touched Dean’s moistened anus, the blonde didn’t care what he was either at that particular moment. Sam’s cock was barely brushing his ass, teasing and driving him mad with want. He just needed Sam, filling him, feeding his hunger.   
  
Dean bit his lower lip and nodded up to Sam, luxuriating in the anticipatory sensations that having Sammy’s cock teasing his entrance evoked. There was less resistance than he’d thought there’d be, he noted as Sam slowly rocked his way into him. It hurt for the first few seconds, before Dean willed himself to relax. The sensation became heat, igniting the furnace of lust he’d been trying like hell to keep banked. Sam’s cock was splitting him open, and his body was responding, welcoming he intruder. The blood suffusing his own equipment was putting Dean into a state of euphoria, and he knew it was the closest to Heaven he would ever come.   
  
Dean didn’t really have a grasp on the internal components of male anatomy, but he just knew that somehow when Sam reached underneath Dean’s leg and pulled it into a different position the angle shifted just enough and his brother’s cock was sliding against the sweet spot inside of him.  
  
“Fuck, Sam,” he whispered roughly. Each stroke against that sensitive knot pushed Dean closer to fulfillment, and he hadn’t even touched his dick. He could tell from the way it built, slow and powerful, that it was going to be the mother of all orgasms.  
  
“God Dean, you’re so tight. Feel so good. Never gonna leave you, not ever.” Sam’s voice sounded fierce and as fucked-out as Dean felt. His pace quickened as he approached his climax, his strokes changing from slow, deliberate thrusts to hard, deep lunges of his hips, driving himself as far into his brother as anatomy would permit. “Need you to feel me,” Sam said as he wrapped a gigantic arm around Dean’s torso in a possessive hug.  
  
“Christ, Sam. I feel you,” he acknowledged.  
  
Sam was beyond the capacity for words, unable to respond to his brother. He reached around, grasping Dean’s cock in his right hand and jacking it in time to his thrusts. Dean’s response was strangled, and he bucked against Sam’s hips, driving him even deeper. Sam cried out, coming. A flood of semen and something far more potent smashed into the blonde and all of a sudden Dean was so damn close, and he wouldn’t _let_ Sam be finished yet. He had new tricks up his sleeve since he’d become mara and through sheer force of will he commanded his brother back to full hardness.   
  
Sam gasped in surprise but he couldn’t help but do what Dean wanted, even though he was exhausted. Sam understood that _that_ was the danger of the mara’s feeding. He felt drained, but there was a well of strength inside him. He was usually hesitant to draw from it, fearing the corruption Azazel planted, but he needed it now. His demon blood could shield him and give him an extra reservoir to draw from.   
  
It was Dean’s nature now to draw energy from his partner. It was like breathing for him, instinctive and primal and natural. It happened with no need to think about it—his body simply performed the tasks necessary for survival. There was no switch going off in his head, helping him figure out how to use the power; it was just a part of him, and he couldn’t control it if he tried. Not that he was thinking about controlling himself. Not with Sam hard again inside him, skin hot and so damn velvety smooth.   
  
“Harder, Sam. I won’t fucking break,” he cursed, and Sam thrust harder, almost fully withdrawing before slamming himself back in, filling Dean up. Sam’s hand tweaked one of Dean’s erect nipples while the other remained around his cock, jacking him in time with his thrusts. Dean’s orgasm built like the incoming tide, waves crashing against the core of him, each bigger than the one before. Finally, _finally_ he couldn’t take any more stimulation and spilled himself over Sam’s hand with a roar of satisfaction.  
  
Released from Dean’s compulsion, Sam’s dick surged again inside his brother’s ass, spending a second time. Warmth suffused Dean like pure energy filling him up, leaving him alert and energized. Basking in the afterglow, he didn’t even notice Sam collapse beside him, back to the rear of the couch and one arm draped around Dean’s waist.  
  
Dean at last felt the hunger inside him start to release the vice grip it had around his gut. It felt like every part of him was relaxing when he hadn’t realized he was tense. He looked down at his younger brother, whose breathing was so shallow, so slow he almost looked dead. Dean had several moments of blind panic interspersed with self-hatred. Neither emotion was a stranger to him.   
  
The blonde’s traitorous memories took him back to Cold Oak, to Sam crumbling to his knees in slow motion before Dean’s eyes, his brother’s blood seeping out though the wound in his back, spine twisted and broken. Dean turned his body so that he was chest to chest with Sam, gathering the larger man in his arms and damn it if he didn’t want to start crying right there. Shit, and he called Sammy a girl.  
  
“’m fine, Dean. Sleepy.” The words are low and breathy, like Sam doesn’t have the energy to form a full sentence. While normally Dean would take that as a compliment to his bedroom skills, he didn’t trust what he’d become. He moved to get up from the couch, but Sam grabbed him around the waist, pinning him in place. “Promised me the bed, jerk,” he murmured.  
  
Dean just smiled. “Pretty sure you’d fall on your face before you made it five feet, bitch.”  
  
Sam made a noise that may have been assent and simply curled his other arm around Dean.  Well, hell.  Of _course_ Sam wanted to cuddle.  
  
 _Fuck_ , thought Dean. He hated being the little spoon.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam awoke with Dean’s back pulled tight against his chest, his arms and legs encircling his brother in a body-warm blanket. It was still dark outside, and the house was quiet. That was a bit of a relief since he and Dean were still both naked as the day they’d came into the world. He wasn’t sure what sort of reaction they’d get from Buffy or Giles, but he didn’t imagine that it would be anything other than horrified shock. Sam wasn’t horrified. Maybe that should be bothering him, but he couldn’t help it. In fact, he was oddly comfortable with the current sleeping arrangements.  
  
Sam blinked his eyes to clear the sleep from them, his surroundings coming into sharper focus. The clock on the DVD player read 4:21, and he figured they had a few hours yet before the others got up for the day. He remained still, not wanting to wake Dean, who was still breathing deeply and evenly in his slumber.  
  
He’d desperately wanted to take care of his brother last night, and Dean had let him. More than let him. Encouraged him. It hadn’t been about the sex, although goddamn that had been just about perfect (not that he would tell Dean; his brother’s ego was already the size of Texas). The closeness he’d felt with Dean in those moments…the two of them hadn’t shared that for a long time. Sam was shocked to realize the extent to which he’d missed it.   
  
He’d slept more soundly last night with his brother curled in his arms than he had in years. Since before his own death and Dean’s deal. Since before Dad and Jess, before Stanford. Even the gnawing darkness in his gut had quieted. The closest comparison he could think of was way back when the three of them hunted together, when Dad would take one bed and his boys would share the other. Once, Sam might have worried about what it meant that he was only at peace around his brother. Strangely, it mattered now only as a vague curiosity. He accepted it as part and parcel of having Dean back on Earth and in his arms.  
  
As the remnants of muddled sleepiness slowly cleared from Sam’s brain, he realized that his body ached even while he was lying completely still. Sam tried to shift on the couch, thinking that perhaps sleeping in the same cramped position all night had made him sore. He realized quickly that he lacked the energy to lift his arm more than a few inches before it flopped back down around his brother’s sweat-damp shoulders. He swore quietly beneath his breath. He’d felt worse, certainly, but if Lilith showed up right now? He wouldn’t be able to so much as daze her. He certainly wouldn’t be able to exorcise her and he sure as hell couldn’t kill her. He couldn’t afford to be weak right now, not when they were sitting ducks out in the open. Hell, Buffy’s house didn’t have any salt lines or devil's traps for protection.  
  
Sam’s heart fluttered in anxiety.  
  
Fuck. He needed Ruby, and he hated himself for it. He hated how she made him feel, and even more than that, what her blood did to him. The shard of blackness in his belly stabbed deeper each time he swallowed more of her; it twisted around and ground against his spine. Most of all? He hated how much he loved it. When Ruby filled him, he was invincible. He could all too easily see himself growing dependent on it. Sam barely suppressed a shudder.  
  
Strong enough to kill Lilith, he promised himself, and then never again. At his strongest, he’d been able to kill Alastair, but he’d felt the demon-child’s power when she'd dragged Dean screaming into the Pit. Even though she might not be able to affect him, Sam had no doubts that she would be fully capable of laying waste to the few remaining people he cared about.  
  
His older brother stirred in his arms, starting to wake. Dean could come awake instantly when the situation required it, but more often he liked to lie in bed as long as possible and let Sam bring back coffee for the both of them. Sam considered getting up to make a pot, but rejected the idea for two reasons. One, he was physically drained, and more importantly two, Dean felt too damn good pressed against him. Even if Sam had been capable of movement, he’d stay right there beside his brother. Exactly there. As soon as Dean was fully cognizant, he’d pull away from Sam, and the younger man wanted to put that moment off for as long as possible.  
  
Sam knew that his current weakened condition was a direct result of having mind-blowing sex with his brother, who was now wired to feed off his partners. He knew that, but he knew it wouldn’t prevent him from doing it again, despite realizing how drained it left him. God, he was screwed. His whimper of frustration caused Dean to shift restlessly in his arms.  
  
Dean’s first thought as he roused was that his ass was sore; he hoped Sam got some smug satisfaction out of that. Hell, Sam had been right—he probably _was_ going to be walking funny for a while. He was also...sated.  Dean fought off the lingering nightmares with the expertise born from long months of practice. He still didn’t sleep peacefully—he likely never would again. But dreams of the past couldn’t compare to the torture of his current situation. Sam didn’t know a tenth, a _hundredth_ of what he’d done downstairs, but he sure as Hell knew what Dean had forced him into last night, and the night before that.   
  
Dean considered the soreness of his body and briefly mused that he had gotten off lightly in this case. After what they’d done last night…well, if he hadn’t been a mara Dean would have been in a far more serious world of pain. Fuck. Last night. Yeah, living with nightmares of Hell was nothing compared to living with the knowledge that he’d forced his little brother to fuck him so he could live. He felt soiled to his core, like he'd violated some essential component of his self.  
  
He’d seen the fear in Sam’s eyes during those minutes before his mara-wrought pheromones kicked in. Sasquatch could claim whatever he wanted, but Dean knew the truth deep down—he’d raped his baby brother. Again. If there was anything worse than Hell, Dean would damn himself there. It was no less than he deserved.  
  
“Sam?” Dean’s voice was sleep muffled, but the question hung lingeringly in the nonexistent space between them. Asking so much with just that one word.  
  
“Yeah?” Sam regretfully let his arm fall from his brother’s shoulders, aching with the effort the small movement took. Sam wished, not for the first time, that words stopped failing him around his brother. He wished he could tell Dean how much he meant to him, but his brother didn’t do touchy-feely and Sam didn’t want to scare him away. Dean’s body was warm against his, Sam’s morning erection pressed flush into the hollow between his brother’s buttocks. He held himself painfully still, waiting to see the elder man’s response.  
  
“I’m uh…gonna get some coffee,” stated Dean uncomfortably, trying to free himself from the tangle of Sam’s gangly limbs. What the hell do you say after waking up naked in your brother’s arms? “You want anything?”  
  
Sam pulled away, and Dean was left oddly bereft. It was _good_ Sam was pulling away, saving himself from Dean’s lewd desires. Instead, Dean felt dejected. Of course Sam didn’t want to be with him, this succubus _thing_. This monster.   
  
“Nah, dude, just gonna lie here for a bit,” replied Sam, stretching out as best he was able on the couch. He pulled one arm behind his head, leaving Dean a tantalizing view of the rippling muscles of Sam’s chest and abdomen. If he didn’t know better, Dean would have suspected the kid was doing it on purpose.  
  
The elder Winchester’s cock twitched in appreciation and he forced himself to look away. He’d never really considered the male body before, except in the purely academic sense of recognizing his own hotness. Christ, Dean thought as he tore his gaze from his brother and padded softly to the kitchen, he should be as freaked out by the guy thing as he was by the brother thing. And even that didn’t really hold a candle to the knowledge that his body could force anyone into doing things that would ordinarily make them run screaming in the other direction. When that hungry feeling hit him, he would do anyone to get some relief, and they would let him. God, he was an ass, using Sam that way.  He was the lowest of the low.  
  
He loved his brother. Even with the lying, the sneaking out…he trusted Sam with his life and would do anything he was capable of to protect him. But to the mara caged inside him, his brother was just another warm body to sate its needs. He’d do it again, he couldn’t _not_ , and it wasn’t fair to Sam. The bonds of family weren’t meant to get this twisted around.  He turned his back to Sam and pulled on his clothing.  If he didn't know better, he'd swear he felt Sam's eyes burning a hole right through his back.  Staring at him accusingly, probably.  
  
Sam watched his brother go, taking some modicum of comfort in the shadow of desire that darkened his brother’s eyes in the seconds before he’d retreated. The taller man reached gingerly for his crumpled boxers and pulled them on. The process took far longer than it should have, but Dean was still in the kitchen brewing the morning pot of coffee when Sam finally managed to get everything in place and adjusted as comfortably as possible.  
  
He reached to the floor for his pants, sliding his hand into his jeans pocket for his cell and holding the 4 button down to speed dial Ruby’s number. Sam couldn’t recall when he’d assigned it there, replacing Jess’s…sometime during the summer, he figured, in between binges. Maybe it had been after it had finally gotten through to him that she was saving his life every day, saving him from himself.  
  
When he got the Blackberry to his ear, he released his breath in relief and relaxed into the sofa, allowing his drained body a respite. The phone rang for what seemed like eons and Sam was well aware of the desperation driving his actions. When the voicemail picked up, Sam entertained serious thoughts about throwing the damn thing against a wall.   
  
“Ruby, where the Hell are you?” he snarled quietly after the voicemail instructed him to leave a message. “Look…I need more, okay? Dean and I are in Cleveland, just call me as soon as you get this.” Sam hit the end button and stared at the cell phone, unseeing.  
  
He hated feeling this weak. He had people depending on him, people he needed to keep safe. Buffy might be a Slayer, but she knew dick all about the type of demons that would be coming after her houseguests. Hellbound spirits corrupted from hundreds of years of torture could throw her across a room with the force of their will alone. What good was superhuman strength against that?   
  
Grunting, Sam hit redial over and over in desperation, but it continued to just ring through to voicemail.  
  
Dean was pouring the hand-ground beans into the coffee filter when he heard his brother’s voice from the other room, but it was too low to make out any words distinctly. Besides, he was fucking done with patrolling Sam’s every action. He was probably talking to that whore of a demon-bitch, and no, that was not jealousy damn it.   
  
He’d show her. After all, who had been with Sam last night? Certainly not Ruby. Thinking back to sweaty skin and frantic caresses, Dean reflected that his little brother had seemed to be kind of into it. Really kind of into it. Beyond even what Dean’s new nature demanded of his partners.  
  
The now-familiar nausea welled up inside him, making his hand shake as he was turning on the coffee maker. He felt like shit again. Hell. He’d used Sam. Because yeah, now that he thought about it, Sam hadn’t been resisting the pheromones this time. Sam had accepted what was happening between them, wanted it. Which was _wrong_ , because they were brothers, damn it. And yeah, sure he’d fantasized about Sam before, but he had a friggin’ excuse, hopped up on venom. Dean could tell the difference between their frenzied grinding the first time and what had happened the previous evening. The second time? There had been intent. Which didn't explain the fear he'd noticed, but both reactions had been irrefutably present.  
  
Dean loved his brother, beyond life, beyond death, but God damn it; he couldn’t keep using Sam this way. He wasn’t in love with the kid. Not that love and sex had really ever had much chance to become intertwined in Dean Winchester. But he knew for sure that they couldn’t just keep fucking and assume everything would remain status quo.  
  
\---  
  
It was just shy 5:30 in the morning when Buffy came suddenly awake. Her sleep had been anything but restful, filled with dreams of tanned bare skin and golden-green eyes. Buffy was wigging kind of a lot actually, as there hadn’t been just one male body but _two_ , and she’d been woven between them. She huffed in frustration, knowing there was no way she’d be able to fall back asleep now. She threw off the covers and blushed, realizing she was going to have to wash the sheets. As soon as she’d changed into a pair of soft gray cotton workout pants and a black camisole, she padded quietly down the stairs. Buffy found Sam lying awake on the couch, clad in only boxers and frantically dialing his phone. Her pulse quickened at the sight of all that exposed muscular flesh.  
  
“Sam, what’s up?” asked Buffy cautiously, seeing his vexation in the tense set of his shoulders and the taut expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”   
  
He jolted in surprise. Throwing the phone into his duffel, Sam painstakingly sat up. She healed fast, but even so she was well acquainted with the way a body moved when it had been put through the wringer. Recalling her dream, Buffy’s mouth went suddenly dry. She thought that maybe she knew what had happened to put him in such a state.  
  
“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” he assured her, but his smile was too wide to be convincing. “Hey, Dean, is that coffee done yet?”  
  
“Never rush a master, dude,” came the reply from the kitchen. Buffy heard the cabinet doors banging, the older Winchester probably searching for mugs.  
  
“They’re in the door above the dishwasher,” she called to Dean helpfully, and then returned her gaze to Sam. He wasn’t telling her everything. Heck, the two of them had hardly told her anything at all, really.  
  
Dean entered the family room bearing gifts of coffee, but Buffy wasn’t fooled. She looked from one brother to the other. “Alright, spill,” she ordered with mock-sternness. Sam blushed a pretty shade of red and behind her Dean choked on a cough. Okay, well that hadn’t been what she’d meant, but it certainly lent evidence to her whacked-out theory. “Something is bothering you, Sam, and if it affects me and the people who stay in my house, I need to know what it is.”   
  
Letting out his breath, Sam assumed his best comforting-the-panicked-witness face. “You’ve been very generous Buffy, and I don’t think we’d ever be able to repay you for that. But I don’t know how much longer we can stay here. The Apocalypse—the real, book of Revelation Apocalypse—is coming up hard and fast, and both sides are gunning for us. The demons especially. They used to be rare; most of them were sealed up in Hell.” Sam paused, unsure of how much to tell her. With any luck they’d be gone soon; if Giles couldn’t find anything to help cure Dean they’d move on to the next contact in Bobby’s list.  
  
“Which hell?” asked Buffy sardonically. “You know, like the nothing but shrimp hell? Or maybe the hell where everyone wears cheese on their heads?”  
  
Both brothers regarded her with a blank stare.   
  
“What? The cheese wearing thing is _totally_ demonic!”  
  
Dean cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. “Capital H Hell, Buffy,” explained Sam gently. “The do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, your soul will burn in the fires of damnation for all time Hell.”  
  
The Slayer’s eyes widened. Yeah, she’d had first-hand experience with Heaven sure, but she’d never heard of an actual literal biblical Hell. “But they got out?”  
  
“Yeah, a couple years ago, some escaped. A few hundred at least. We…our dad was a bit to blame on that count. There was this gun crafted by Samuel Colt that could kill anything—vampire, demon—for good,” explained Sam.  
  
“But it was also the key to a Devil’s Gate. A doorway to Hell,” added Dean.  
  
“Dad…gave it to a demon, the same one that killed our mom. In exchange for saving Dean’s life. The door was only open for a minute, maybe two.  We closed it, but…”  
  
Buffy nodded. “Okay, but that doesn’t really explain why would the demons be after you.”  
  
Dean looks pointedly at Sam, but replied to Buffy with his trademark devil-may-care arrogance. “We’re kind of a big deal,” he smirked.  
  
“So basically, you guys think you’re endangering me and mine by staying here when the great cosmic forces of the universe are out for your collective butts?”  
  
“He does,” said Dean, pointing at his little brother. “Kid’s a worrier, always has been. Me, I figure you can handle yourself. I kinda like that in a chick.”  
  
Sam ground his teeth. “I’m not a kid, Dean.” The elder man just grinned.  
  
“No, but you are exhausted,” interjected Buffy. “You should try to get some more rest, Sam. The end of the world isn’t here yet, and like I told you before, I’ve lost track of how many apocalypses I’ve averted.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Seriously, dude. You’re dead on your feet. Need some help making it to the guest room?” asked Dean, concerned.  
  
“No, I’m fine. I got it. Wake me in an hour or something, okay?”  
  
“Yeah, sure thing Sleeping Beauty.”  
  
“Dick,” mumbled Sam as he trod tiredly toward the other room.  
  
When the younger Winchester had finally retreated, Buffy took his seat on the sofa and looked over at Dean, who was still standing in the doorway sipping his coffee. “Wanna tell me what’s really going on?” asked Buffy.  
  
“Not really,” replied Dean. He sighed deeply. “It’s not…I don’t _do_ this. This feelings crap.”  
  
“It’s not crap, but you don’t have to. I can deal with just the facts ma’am, but I need to know what might be coming after you two. I need to know everything.”  
  
Yeah Dean could understand that. The first thing Dad had taught them was to learn. A good Hunter had to do his research, know what he was after and how to protect himself and the people he cared about. He mentally braced himself against the deluge of memories he was about to loose. “Alright, so I spent last summer in Hell. Only time runs different there, so what might seem like four months to you? That’s forty years down there. I got out…freakin’ _angels_ pulled me out…but not before I…not before something I did broke the first lock on the door that keeps Lucifer caged. And now even though I started this whole shitstorm, the dicks with wings want me for something.  They say I have to do something for them.”  
  
Dean’s voice choked up, like he was struggling to get the words out, have them over and done with and hung in the air between them for everyone to see. “They told me I’m supposed to stop it, only I have no friggin’ clue what it is they want stopped. It’s not me though…I told them to find someone else. They gotta—gotta find someone…. Fuck,” he said, voice whisper soft and shaking from internalized sobs. He turned away from the blonde to compose himself. Buffy couldn’t help herself; she felt drawn to him. She wished there was something she could do to take away some of his pain.  
  
“But yeah,” he said finally, bitterly, breaking the mood. “That’s what’s coming. The fucking Devil himself. When the last seal, the last lock on his prison is broken, well, I’m guessing that’ll be all she wrote.”  
  
She couldn’t take it anymore. He looked far too fragile, like he was curling in on himself. It dawned on her that this was Dean Winchester naked, with no walls of smarmy sexuality or brash arrogance. It broke her heart. She wasn’t worried about angels or demons or the Devil at the moment, because this strong, cocky, beautiful man was falling apart in front of her. Buffy crossed the family room before Dean could pull away, and wrapped him in a tight warm embrace.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean stood motionless as Buffy’s very womanly form pressed against him, the softness of her counterpoint to the memory of his brother’s firm muscles. He checked and double checked the flickering hunger guttering in his belly, but it was quiet, easy to control for the moment. The only stirrings he felt were the totally natural ones from being pulled tight against a hot chick.   
  
Sex demon or no, he was still Dean fucking Winchester.   
  
He’d fed well and deeply the night before; hopefully he could put off having to do it again indefinitely. Dean knew the warning signs now, but he really had no real notion of his limits, how long he could push himself to go without feeding the mara inside him. One thing was for damn sure, he wasn’t going to use Sam again. His brother was still in the other room, and would be passed out cold for another few hours if Dean had accurately gauged his energy levels.  
  
The elder man desperately wanted to relax himself into the embrace and take what comfort he could. Here was someone who didn’t need him for anything, who was in fact helping him with no ulterior motives on her part. Who didn’t judge him (too harshly; he pled temporary insanity on banging that vampire) and actually genuinely seemed to care about him. When all this was over, he’d probably never see her again. He’d never have to interact with her on a daily basis…he could afford to sag ever so slightly in her arms.  
  
Even though he had a foot of height on her, she held him upright easily. He’d never imagined what a turn on a strong woman could be, and Buffy was strong in all senses of the word.  
  
Dean wasn’t entirely sure whose head tilted first, but he supposed it didn’t matter. The result was the same. Lips met with an air of inevitability, with gentle pressure and quiet passion that nonetheless made Dean Jr. sit up and say hello. God, why had he waited to do this? Buffy was smoking hot, wicked strong, and possibly, just maybe understood him a little bit.  
  
Buffy leaned into the rugged hunter, pressing her body against his and groaning soft and low in her throat. The man could _kiss_. Why had she waited so long to do this? His tongue swept warm and rough against her lower lip, and she parted for him readily. He entered her surely, with deft, precise movements. His tongue toyed with hers, teasing her before withdrawing completely. He stopped first, breaking away ever so slightly so he could examine her face, trying to gauge her interest.   
  
She wanted more. Something about the troubled Winchester drew her. Buffy ran her fingernails up Dean’s spine and tangled in his short hair. He shuddered at the sensation that didn’t quite tickle, and made his cock jump in his pants. She pulled his head the few millimeters that separated them and kissed him, trading his gentleness for a hard and bruising closed mouth kiss.  
  
Dean groaned and she could feel the hard outline of his cock against her belly. Buffy felt her lips curling in a satisfied smile. She’d told him before that she doubted he could match her in bed, but now she was reconsidering. The worst part was, she wasn’t sure if her desire was due to his transformation or not. She could feel the otherness of him, brushing against the edges of her consciousness. In the past, with Angel and then Spike, that sensation had always been a bit of a turn-on, and responses like that just didn’t go away.  
  
In the heat of the moment, the uncertainty didn’t much matter to her; it had been a long time since she’d allowed herself to have this. Simple, uncomplicated lust was something she could deal with. Could enjoy. As soon as Giles fixed Dean, the brothers would disappear from her life. Strangely, the thought wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. God, the Winchesters were actually starting to grow on her.  
  
Buffy broke the kiss and pulled back slightly to look into Dean’s phosphorescent golden eyes. They appeared to be glowing ever so slightly, sparking amber into the dim room. The sun was just a thin line on the horizon, only just starting to rise. The magnificence of sunrise was nothing compared to the wonder of Dean’s mara eyes. It was like they _moved_ , swirling with shades of gold and lime and olive and every hue in between, changing from moment to moment.  
  
Dean, for his part, was just as lost. As much as he wanted to convince himself otherwise, what had just occurred between them wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t complicated, but it wasn’t just simple desire. When she’d let him rest in her arms, he’d felt things he hadn’t felt in a lifetime, things he’d convinced himself he’d imagined in an attempt to stave of the nightmares of Hell. It was almost like peace. He just hoped it wasn’t the calm before the storm.  
  
The hunter didn’t know how long they’d been entwined, but the sound of Giles softly clearing his throat shook them back to reality. Dean withdrew reluctantly putting a few inches of space between himself and the Slayer. He made sure to turn so that the couch hid his excited state from the older scholar, who was facing half away from them and diligently cleaning his glasses with his charcoal gray sweater vest. The academic was always so perfectly dressed and groomed that Dean was pretty sure that Giles didn’t sleep; he just returned to his alien mother ship each night and left a simulacrum in Buffy’s guest room.  
  
The alien librarian Watcher had a thick book tucked beneath his arm. Dean glanced at it curiously.  
  
“Yes, well,” began Giles, clearly searching for something to say. Obviously deciding that feigning ignorance was the best approach, the ex-librarian stumbled into speech. “How fortunate that you are both, ah…awake. I have some rather good news. Now, we know that there is no protection from becoming a succubus, and er…of course it’s rather too late for that remedy should it even exist, but there _are_ many amulets and wards against the creatures themselves.”   
  
Dean stiffened at the word 'creature', a shift in position that would have been imperceptible had Buffy not been standing so close she could feel the tension in his muscles. On impulse, she slid her hand down over his arm and took his hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance. Dean’s hand twitched at first, and then slowly closed around hers.  
  
“As I said, there are a multitude of options, but because we still want to help you, Dean, we cannot use the majority of them. Nevertheless, I did come across this particular amulet which prevents against the, ah…erotic influence of the succubus.  It's not specific to the mara subspecies but I believe it can be effectively modified.” Giles pulled the tome from under his arm and opened it to a bookmarked page. He turned the book to allow Dean and Buffy to look at the image drawn there. “The person or persons wearing this particular amulet cannot be affected by Dean’s…ah…p-pull.”  
  
Dean sighed and pulled away from Buffy, shifting his weight to his opposite foot. “Make ‘em up. Make extras. We don’t know how long I’ll be…like this, and I can’t live with…. I just can’t.” His voice broke slightly on his last words, like a ship splintering its hull against a shallow reef.  
  
“Well, that leaves us safe,” considered Buffy, frowning, “but it still doesn’t solve the problem of Dean needing to feed now that he’s changed.”  
  
“We are still working on that. I’ve asked Atherton and a team at the Watcher’s Council to look into alternate considerations. He is still waiting for the blood sample to arrive; even under the best circumstances international mail isn’t as fast as we would like it to be. I expect it should arrive sometime in the next three or four days. Hopefully, it will tell them more about your condition and a way to treat it.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean said roughly, “I won’t hold my breath.”  
  
“So do these amulets call for some Willow action?” asked Buffy hopefully.  
  
“The materials themselves should be simple enough to track down, but yes, I imagine Willow’s garden and herb collection should serve us well here.”  
  
Buffy nodded, a plan formulating in her head. Dean was still holding himself rigid, and she knew he was hurting in places he would never show anyone outright. He needed a break, and hanging around the house cooped up and inactive wasn’t doing him any favors. Xander. He’d been around Dean before without setting off his mara pheromones. Buffy reached for Dean’s hand again, and he didn’t pull away. “Giles and Wills are going to be messing around with some mojo this afternoon, so you probably don’t want to be in the general vicinity just in case. Xander’s been pestering me about you; I figure you two could have a guy’s night out. I know he’s needed it lately, hanging around with me and Willow all the time.”  
  
Dean thought about the genial man. He _did_ have a pretty bitchin’ eyepatch. Dean wondered if Xander was any good with a gun. There had been this one time, in between hunts when he and Sam were still kids, Dad had taken them to play laser tag. They’d handled guns before, of course, but it had been different. The laser pistols were part of a game, not some life or death, kill or be killed situation. It had been the three of them versus the world; it was one of Dean’s favorite memories.  
  
He nodded at Buffy and she went to the kitchen, presumably to call her friends.  Dean’s gaze tracked her movements for a few moments before turning back to Giles.  The elder man was glaring, and there was something dangerous in his eyes.  
  
“Did I ever tell you how I got the nickname ‘Ripper’?” asked the Watcher conversationally.  
  
Dean, slightly confused, shook his head.  
  
There was something frightening in Giles’ voice when he continued.  “If you hurt her, I will give you a first hand demonstration.  I can guarantee it will not be pleasant.  Do please tell Buffy that I am going to the local magic shop to procure supplies.”  
  
Dean just stared after the man as he made his exit, slightly stunned at the maleficence that had just come out of the usually agreeable scholar.  
  
\---  
  
“Buffster! How are you this fine morning?”  
  
“I have a favor to ask you.  We need to get Dean out of the house for a few hours while Giles, Will and I make some anti-succubi amulets, and he could really use an excuse to blow off some steam.”  
  
“So you’re asking me to take the monster of the week out for a night on the town?  It’ll be like old times!  Kidding, kidding!” he interjected before the Slayer could bite his head off. “Of course I will; he actually seems like a half-decent guy.”  
  
“Great!  Thanks so much, Xan.  I think Giles just left to get the spell ingredients, so I figure you can swing by and pick Dean up around four o'clock, after you get off work.  That should give us enough time to make up the amulets before nightfall.”  
  
“Sure thing, Buff. See you then,” replied Xander.  
  
Buffy cradled the phone and went to check on Sam.  The younger Winchester sibling was dead to the world, spread out over a good portion of the queen sized guest bed.  He’d never gotten fully dressed before he passed out on top of the covers. His muscular calves and ginormous feet dangled off the foot of the mattress and Buffy snorted a laugh to herself.  He was way too big for the bed, but apparently that hadn’t mattered to him.  Buffy carefully pulled the comforter up over the sleeping man, unable to stop herself from softly touching the tanned muscles of his back.  She pulled away when she realized what she’d done, almost like she’d been burned (and hell, the boy was scorchingly hot), then left him, closing the door behind her.  
  
Dean was reading from the book Giles had left regarding amulets and ward-signs.  She looked at him questioningly.  The elder man shrugged at her, not looking up from the heavy tome.  
  
Buffy sighed.  It was going to be a long day.  
  
\---  
  
The doorbell rang just before 4 o’clock that afternoon, and Dean answered the door to reveal a dark haired man dressed in jeans and a close fitting dark shirt.  “Dean-o, my man! What’s up?” asked Xander by way of greeting.  He spoke so quickly, Dean couldn’t get a response in, and supposed it was unnecessary.  “So there’s this tournament at Laser Zone,” Xander continued, “and my partner bailed on me tonight.  So what do you say, wanna join my team?  Reigning champ right here,” he grinned, pointing to his chest, blue eye sparkling.  
  
Dean almost suspected _someone_ of reading his mind, but he was pretty sure that was impossible.  He wanted to be wary, but something about the man was infectious, and Dean couldn’t help but grin back hugely, looking for all the world like he was six years old and his dad had just bought him a Red Rider BB gun.  “Dude,” answered the Winchester excitedly, “that would rock.”  
  
“Can we take your car, man?  I’ve never ridden in a ’67 before.”  
  
“Sure, but no one drives my baby but me,” agreed Dean.  
  
With Xander navigating, the boys made it to Laser Zone in less than ten minutes.  The place was already packed with teenage and twenty-something young men and women, and to Dean's immense relief, no hunger stirred in his gut.  As Xander had mentioned, it was a tournament night, and members of the staff were getting the brackets set up when they walked in.  
  
“You start off in teams of eight, made up randomly from four teams of two,” explained Xander.  “That’s just so that people don’t have to wait around as long to get to play.  Each round a team of two is eliminated based on the lowest combined scores.  Have you played before?”  
  
Dean nodded, “Yeah when I was a kid. Been a while though,” he said.  
  
“Scoring is pretty straightforward, five points for the chest sensor, four for the back, three for the shoulders and three for the gun sensors.  If you get hit you lose one point regardless of which target they got.  You get an accuracy bonus as well; most people tend to disregard that and fire as often as they can, but you get a five times multiplier.  So for example if you hit 90% of the shots you take, you can get an extra 450 points. It just depends on how you want to play it.”  
  
“Like I said it’s been a while since I’ve done this, but my dad was an ex-Marine and he made sure my brother and I could shoot from the time we were kids.”  
  
“Sweet!” exclaimed Xander.  “We’re totally going to own these punks.”  Dean thought Xander’s hyena grin looked like it would hurt his face, but he grinned back.  
  
They’d been waiting in patient silence for a while when Dean thought he heard something.  “What’d you say?” he asked his companion.  
  
Xander looked confused.  “Nothing.”  
  
“Weird, I could have sworn….”  Dean’s voice trailed off.  His spine prickled, and he checked his surroundings, but found nothing out of the ordinary.  He resolved to have a good time.  He was finally out of Buffy's godforsaken house, and goddamn it he was going to enjoy himself.  
  
It wasn’t until Xander punched him lightly in the arm that Dean realized he’d been lost in his own thoughts.  “We’re up man!”  
  
Dean nodded and the staff led them and the rest of their team into one room, and the other team of eight into another.  The game referee explained the rules: they weren’t allowed to cover any targets or made physical contact with the other players, but aside from that all bets were pretty much off for the tournament.  The staff fitted them with their gear, which Dean noted had a pleasant weight to it.  Looking down he saw that his dark washed jeans glowed slightly in the black light, but he knew he could camouflage himself with some of the barriers he saw in the arena.  Xander’s clothing didn’t glow at all; clearly he’d planned his wardrobe ahead of time.  
  
The referee let them into the arena and gave them a fifteen second head start to get situated.  Xander and Dean took up positions at either side of a tall tower in the corner of the room.  The high ground gave them an excellent vantage point of the other team attempting to storm the lower level.  Dean took out a kid through a grate below him with a shoulder shot, and his opponent retreated to safety around a corner.  The laser gun handled pretty well; it didn’t take him long to get used to the burst cannon either, five rapid fire shots by holding the trigger down for a few seconds, though that method lost some accuracy.  
  
When one of the opposing team tried to sneak up on Xander, Dean was able to take him out with a shot to the back.  However, instead of retreating, the man ducked behind a barrier until his gun became active again, then focused on Dean.  The elder Winchester dropped to the ground to avoid the shot, and then returned fire, hitting him in the chest sensor.   
  
The match was over too soon for Dean, adrenaline spiking and a huge grin splitting his face.  They shelved the gear and headed out into the ready room to check their scores.  The staff announced the scores by code name, so Dean had to wait till they got through the Awesomemans and the Galactic Warriors until they got to him.  
  
“Hunter, 1695!  We have a new high score for the day, congratulations!” the referee said.  
  
“Damn man, nice job,” said Xander, turning to Dean.  “You had the look of ex-military in there. Did you serve, or was it just your dad?” asked Xander, eyes wide.  
  
Dean’s gaze unfocused and his posture tightened.  Xander was many things, but unobservant wasn’t one of them.  “Hey, forget I asked, okay?”  His voice dropped to a whisper, “I was turned into a soldier for Halloween one year when I was in high school.  I’m telling you, some things you just don’t forget.  I’m pretty sure I can still put together an M-16 in under 57 seconds.”  
  
“Dude,” replied Dean, “your life is weird.”  
  
“Tell me about it.”  
  
Dean’s spine prickled again as he thought he heard a whisper in the back of his mind, but it was impossible to make out.  He shook his head, sure that he was imagining it.  He thought he heard it again several times that evening, but between the excitement of the games and his own denial, he could happily ignore it.   
  
He and Xander won of course, that was a forgone conclusion, and they headed back to Buffy’s house around nine o’clock, one hundred dollars richer.


	11. Chapter 11

“Willow, could you please hand me the anise seeds?” asked Giles, holding out his hand while his body remained fixed, bent over the clay talisman. She and Buffy sat opposite him around the kitchen table, sorting the herbs and other materials into piles. The older man had returned with the redhead in tow just after Xander had come to pick up Dean. They’d spent the first thirty minutes discussing the minutia of the talisman, and the last ten minutes fabricating a prototype.  
  
According to the leather-bound book of amulets and wards, it was originally designed to cleanse the psyche and ward off bad dreams and negative influences. Willow had brought anise cuttings and seeds, as well as valerian and bay leaves. The book had called for hyssop as well, but Willow had told the scholar that the herb might be too strong of a banishing agent, and she donated the valerian as a substitute, hoping to promote purification and protection.  
  
Giles had obtained shavings of obsidian and hematite to repel negativity, as well as clay which could be baked in a conventional oven to harden in only a few hours. Once the herbs and mineral shavings were placed on the clay, they would fold the clay over the contents and carve the ward symbol into it. The sigil was specific to mare-witches, and Giles had suspected that it was a perversion of Enochian.  
  
“Here you go Giles,” replied the witch happily, setting a handful of seeds into the librarian’s outstretched hand.  
  
“Good. Thank you.” He didn’t look up as he took them and settled the anise into the pattern in the center of the clay. “What do you think, Willow?”  
  
“It’s pretty,” interjected Buffy.  
  
“Yes well, it’s not designed to be pretty, Buffy; it is designed to be functional. Until we can find some means to reverse Dean’s condition, these amulets are the only protection we have from whatever powers he may now possess.”  
  
Buffy pouted and put on a contrite face, but she was thinking about her dreams. Did she really want them to stop?  
  
 _Yes!_ screamed one half of her brain. The other shouted back _Hell no!_ Hot, sweaty, orgasm-inducing dreams about gorgeous guys? Yes, please! But on the other hand, those two gorgeous guys? Totally sleeping together. And _brothers_. And always around. But…really kind of amazing, actually. Buffy’s brain was going in circles. Finally common sense stepped in and informed her baser thoughts that regardless of everything, the amulet would prevent Dean’s pheromones from working on her and her friends. She would mourn the loss of the dreams though.  
  
“It’s okay, Buff,” comforted Willow. Buffy’s head jerked up before she realized that Wills was just talking about her earlier comment. “It actually is a lovely pattern, with the red and black shards encircling the flowers. And yes, Giles, that looks like the proper form of the ward. We just have to engrave that sigil from the website Sam found into the clay and let it harden. What did you say it was supposed to represent again?”  
  
“I’m relatively sure after a conversation with Mr. Singer that it’s a form or derivation of ancient Enochian, supposedly the language of angels; it calls for protection from servants of Nahemah. From what I gather, she is supposed to be the progenitor of the mara, their goddess-creator, as it were.” Giles picked up the pencil lying beside the bags of herbs and stone shavings and lightly carved the pattern into the malleable clay. Once he finished, he examined the sigil carefully for any mistakes or broken lines. Satisfied, he deepened the gouges, and then set the amulet down on a sheet of wax paper.  
  
“One down!” cheered Buffy. When both Giles and Willow shot her an irritated look, she grumbled. “No one gets my humor!” she exclaimed, tossing her hands up in the air feigning exasperation.  
  
“Buffy, I believe Willow and I have things quite in order here. Why don’t you see how the young Mr. Winchester is doing? He’s been sleeping most of the day; frankly, I’m fairly concerned.” Giles’ polite British manner didn’t disguise the fact that he was asking her to leave them to their work. And really, now that all of the ingredients were sorted, there wasn’t much she could help with anyway.  
  
Well, that was okay, she _was_ concerned about Sam, after all. If Dean was drawing the energy he needed to live from him, as she suspected, then Buffy completely understood why he’d not emerged from the guest room. Dean was one of the most desperately _alive_ people she’d ever met; she couldn’t fathom what was necessary to sustain that tenacious hold on life.  
  
As Buffy wandered down the hall toward the room Sam had appropriated, her thoughts were full of Dean. The interruption this morning had left things awkward and unresolved between them. They’d hardly spoken the rest of the day. Dean had kept his nose in a book she was reasonably sure he wasn’t actually reading, while she’d done her level best to work off some excess energy. She’d done dishes, cleaned, and vacuumed…all the normal household stuff she usually put off until the last possible moment. She’d even gone down to the basement to practice with weapons until Xander had finally come to pick him up.  
  
None of it had set her mind at ease. It had been days now, and they were no closer to finding any way to reverse what had been done to the hunter. The ward medallions were the first real progress they’d had, and they could only prevent the effects he had on others—they wouldn’t save him from the terrible hunger he must be feeling. So while everyone wearing the talismans would be able to resist his call, Dean would go mad from starvation. Buffy knew Giles had put his hope in Atherton, his colleague at the British Watcher’s Council; she just hoped that faith was justified. She didn’t want to have to watch Dean die. Almost against her will, she was strangely fond of him.  
  
A muffled ringing coming from the guest room stole her attention. Sam’s phone.  
  
On the other side of the door, Sam made a noise of discontent that was half growl and half whine at having been awakened. It took him a second or two to realize his cell was ringing, but the moment he did, he was wide awake and scrambling for it. Very few people had his number, and a call from any of them was usually urgent. He glanced briefly at the caller ID before accepting the call, his relief making the tense set of his shoulders relax ever so slightly.  
  
“Ruby? Where are you?”  
  
“Well, howdy to you too, Sam,” came the irritated voice from the other end. “I’m doing great thanks, just stuck out in the middle of Bumfuck, Idaho following up on a lead for you, but I’m so relieved to hear you care. Makes my heart sing with joy.”  
  
Sam sighed. “Hi, Ruby,” he said patiently. For all she was a demon, she was still a woman. He forgot that sometimes, not that she ever allowed him to for long.  
  
“Hi, Sammy,” she greeted again, this time with warmth in her voice. As warm as Ruby ever got, anyway. “I know you’re hurting, but I need to finish checking this out, it could be important. I’ll get to Cleveland as soon as I can, just a couple more days. Don’t worry baby, I’m going to take good care of you. Hang in there, okay?”  
  
Sam mumbled something that was akin to disgruntled agreement and hung up on her. A rogue thought passed through him. Dean would never make him wait for something he needed. Sam lay immobile as he considered the implications. Even when they’d been young, his older brother had always provided for them. Dean was the one who’d brought him to the hospital when he’d fallen in the playground and broken his arm. Dean was the one who poured cereal and made sandwiches and ordered take-out, sometimes even going hungry to make sure his little brother had enough to eat. He’d looked after Sam, saw immediately to his needs…and here the younger Winchester was, running off behind Dean’s back to do something that would sicken his older brother if he ever found out. That _did_ sicken Sam.  
  
His self-disgust didn’t change the fact that he craved what Ruby gave him. Dean would understand that now, surely. Even now the need was a crawling, gnawing thing in his gut. Sam often worried where the path he was on would take him; he didn’t think it was anywhere good. But the tradeoff would be worth it. Finding Lilith, killing her…the bitch had condemned his brother to forty years of unspeakable torture while he had to sit and watch it happen. He’d had to watch powerlessly while Dean was ripped to pieces by her Hellhounds. She had to pay for Dean’s pain, for Sam’s despair…for so many, many things. And he had to be strong enough to do it. He could be, with Ruby’s help.  He _would_ be.  
  
And after that? Well, he’d been willing to sacrifice himself before.  
  
A light knock alerted him to the presence of another person. Sam looked up to see the petite blonde leaning against the door frame. “Girlfriend?” she asked innocently.  
  
Sam sighed deeply. “It’s complicated.” Business associate? Dealer? Confidante? All of those things, he supposed. She helped take the edge off, kept him from spiraling into self-destruction, made him strong. He was pretty sure there was no way to explain Ruby to Buffy, so he didn’t try.  
  
But the Slayer saw something in Sam’s eyes, and simply nodded. With everything he was going through, he could probably use a rock. She could do steady and supportive, but he needed to smile first. “I did complicated once,” she shared as she walked to the bed to take a seat beside the young hunter. Her past relationships were certainly that, she admitted to herself, thinking of Angel and everything that had been and come between them. Then she thought of Spike. Last she’d heard they were both off fighting the good fight in Los Angeles. She remembered Riley and his issues of inadequacy. Buffy shook her head and grinned ruefully. “Okay well…maybe more than once.”  
  
“Yeah? How’d that work out?”  
  
Buffy’s grin widened into a true smile. “Complicated.”  
  
Sam chuckled with her. “Yeah well, our whole lives have been complicated.”  
  
“Not really. You find the bad thing, you kill the bad thing. That’s about as simple as things get, when you think about it.”  
  
Sam sighed. “It’s not that, the job. It’s…have you ever had the feeling that whatever you choose, whatever you do, things are going to end in a predetermined way?” The thing in Sam’s belly stirred, and he ruthlessly squashed it, once more forcing it into the abyss within him in the hope it would go away for good this time. Too bad he was never that lucky.  
  
“Sure. Slayer here. Mystical calling and yadda, yadda, yadda.” Buffy rolled her eyes.  “But Sam, one thing I’ve learned about prophecies and destinies is they never work out quite the way you thought they would. Hey, I was destined to die at sixteen!”  
  
“And?” prodded Sam, looking at the very alive, very vibrant young woman.  
  
She shrugged cheerfully. “I died. Drowned, actually, but only for a minute. Xander made with the CPR and brought me back. I could give you a bunch of other examples, but my point is nothing is set in stone. I haven’t known you long, Winchester, but I can tell you’re a good guy. And I’ve seen how much you care for your brother.” She pretended not to see the flush that colored Sam’s cheeks, and pressed on. “Strangely enough, things usually have a way of working themselves out.”  
  
Sam looked up at her and did his level best to attempt a convincing smile. He wanted to be reassured. But facts were facts. Dean was still _changed_ and something within Sam still craved everything that Ruby could give him. And no matter how much both of those things terrified him, neither was likely to change any time soon. But Buffy was trying so hard, so all he said was, “I’m sure you’re right.”  
  
\---  
  
Buffy closed to door behind her, leaving Sam to get some more sleep. She’d have Willow or Giles bring some food for him later; she didn’t want to see the hopelessness in his eyes again tonight. She sighed and flopped down on the couch and let her lids droop. It had been a while since she’d had a solid night’s sleep, between the research and the dreams.  
  
The sound of the door closing startled her awake. It was after 9 o’clock. Damn, she really hadn’t meant to sleep that long.  She figured either Giles or Willow would have woken her up when they'd finished the amulets.  
  
“Hey,” she called, a bit groggy. She wiped the sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand and sat up tiredly.  
  
“Hey,” came the response, the voice whiskey-rough and pitched in a way that made her underwear damp. That probably hadn’t been Dean’s intent, but everything about him was keyed for sex now, even down to the very timbre of his voice.  
  
Buffy took a calming breath. “Did you have a good night?”  
  
“You know, I really did. Xander said to tell you goodnight by the way, he had to get stuff ready at the shop for tomorrow. Big sale or something.”  
  
“I’m glad,” she said, stretching her cramped limbs and cracking her back.  
  
Dean stiffened, his breath held as he watched her move. He’d never met a woman as incredible as Buffy, and it wasn’t just her body, though _god damn_. Her strength, both physical and emotional, spoke to something in him, something he hoped wasn’t the mara. He didn’t feel the hunger that had become his greatest fear, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t lurking somewhere in the pit of his stomach, waiting for an outlet.  
  
“I have to get some sleep, obviously. But Dean, I really am glad you had a good time. You deserve it.” Buffy got up from the couch and walked by the hunter on the way upstairs. He was still standing just inside the hall, motionless as he could make himself.  
  
“Wait,” he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. Dean’s hand circled her arm and he spun her into his arms. He’d been terrified of the way he’d reacted to her earlier, and that, more than Giles’s warning, had been keeping him at arm’s length. But now…he wanted to finish what they’d started, to prove to himself that he could be safe, that he could allow himself to have this. He kept a tight leash on his desire, knowing that Buffy would feel the full force of it because of his inhuman nature.  
  
Gently, gentler than he’d ever been with anyone other than Sammy as a baby, Dean enclosed the Slayer in a chaste embrace. “I want to kiss you, Buffy.” The words felt like a plea.  
  
She looked up and met his incredible amber eyes. She thought it was entirely unfair for any man to have eyes so perfect. Dean was beautiful, there was no denying that.  The transformation had just perfected what was already there. Handsome and noble, and so very strong in the face of everything that had happened to him. Of course she wanted to kiss him. And more besides. “Okay,” she breathed, tilting her head up to give him a better angle to her lips.  
  
Dean groaned, unprepared for the breadth of feeling that flooded him. He took her lips with a delicate pressure, but no less possessive for all its tenderness. “Oh god,” he whispered, pulling away to rest his head on her shoulder. Faint luminescence peeked out from beneath his closed lids. He didn’t want this, wasn’t ready for it. He’d _never_ wanted a girl this way before, not for the person she was. Before, with other girls, with Cassie, it was only about what they’d represented to him or what they could do for him. Maybe it was because Buffy really seemed to care about him. Or hell, maybe he was just imagining that she felt something in return.  
  
Buffy touched his face and he lifted his head toward her. The next kiss began just as light as the first, and almost hesitant. Dean had never let these kinds of feelings fill him in such a way. They scared him, yet at the same time he welcomed—craved—them. To feel wanted, feel loved…it was all he’d ever wanted. He gave himself over to his desire and the black hole of need within him, and deepened their kiss.  
  
Everything he’d felt before seemed magnified now, as if he was allowing himself to feel it on an even deeper level. Yeah, he was still terrified of how much he liked the Slayer, but she was too good to let go. Dean’s tongue brushed against Buffy’s lips, tasting of berry lip-gloss. She opened her mouth slightly to draw a ragged breath, and the hunter seized the opportunity that presented itself. He entered her mouth and caressed her tongue with his own. He wanted to feel every part of her the same way he was exploring her mouth right now.  
  
Dean’s body was responding to the way Buffy pressed herself against him, tensing and hardening in all the right places. She smirked into their kiss and reached a hand down to caress him through his jeans. He moaned, breaking away from her lips to nibble his way down her neck. The Slayer stiffened a bit in his arms and dropped her hand when he reached the raised white flesh that scarred her neck. “It’s okay,” he whispered. He wanted to promise her that he was safe, that he didn’t feel the hunger stirring inside of him. True, Dean didn’t sense his mara nature; _that_ had been fed well and deeply. But he still hungered, and he didn’t know how safe that hunger was. Buffy was strong, but what if he hurt her without meaning to? Regretfully, he pulled away from her, hands resting lightly on her shoulders, unwilling to break contact completely. His hard cock was a reminder of how badly he wanted her.  
  
“You should get some sleep,” he told her regretfully.  
  
“You didn’t have to stop, Dean. I just…I don’t like what those scars remind me of.”  
  
He shook his head. “Goodnight, Buffy.” He withdrew from her, went over to the couch and began setting up the hide-a-bed.  
  
Hurt, she took a deep breath. “Fine,” she said shortly. At the sound of her fading footsteps on the stairs, Dean finally relaxed. His dick was begging for attention, but god damn it, he was so very not in the mood. Part of him was raging against the rest for letting her go, but it was a small part. Dean knew he’d done the right thing. He’d wanted to prove he could handle himself, and he had. Anything more than that was just too dangerous. He didn’t think he could take it if the monster in him could act without warning.  
  
It was already horrifying enough trying to live with the thing he’d become.


	12. Chapter 12

“You're a difficult man to reach, Tiger. I tried calling you all evening, but you wouldn’t even respond to me. Really hurts a girl’s feelings.”  
  
Dean whirled, facing Mara, with only scant inches separating them. He couldn't prevent his eyes from widening and his cock from hardening when he saw her. She looked exactly as she had the first time he'd met her, tall and brunette, wearing a skimpy waitress uniform. This uniform was a bit more Frederick’s of Hollywood than standard dive bar fare though. Her breasts threatened to make a surprise appearance if she so much as leaned forward slightly, and her cleavage was so breathtaking that even though he knew she was a vicious monster, he still wanted to motorboat that shit. “You like?” she asked coyly as she strutted toward him with her hands on her hips. “I wore it just for you, Sugar. I know how much it turns you on.” Mara reached a hand out and caressed Dean’s package, gently using her long red fingernails for extra stimulation through the denim of his jeans.  
  
“Get away from me, you freaky bitch!” Dean growled, trying for threatening but his arousal and fear allowed a slight tremor to creep into his voice. He backpedaled, unable to stop himself, cursing under his breath. He didn’t recognize his surroundings. It was like some impressionist painter had jammed half a lifetime’s worth of shabby hotel rooms together and mixed it with black leather and chrome. Bits and pieces from one no-tell motel room and knickknacks from another were tossed together in a way that only made sense if he didn’t focus on it.  
  
“Now Dean, that's not a very nice way to greet me, and after I spent so long trying to get in touch with you. I made you strong, baby. Irresistible. Don't you even want to say thank you?”  
  
“You made me a freaking _monster_! You don't get anything from me!” Dean reached for the Colt he kept tucked against the small of his back, only to find nothing but bare flesh. What the hell? He was always armed, but here, now, there was nothing. No guns, no knives, no _shirt_. Nothing but him and her, standing in a half-formed room of a nightmarish motel.  
  
“This is _my_ world, Tiger. We might be in your head, in your dreams, but _I_ rule here. Best remember that. You can’t do anything here that I don’t allow to happen.” She looked around in…admiration? A satisfied smirk flitted across her gorgeous features. “Oh, the things I could find in here, Dean. Dreams have been my playground for millennia. I can torture you here, until you’re nothing but a broken husk of a living thing…but I won’t. Do you see how merciful I am? All I ask is for you to come to me.”  Mara backed up two steps, crooking her finger for him to follow.  
  
“Oh, _hell_ no,” he retorted. Yeah okay, prose it wasn’t, but it got his point across, and right now Dean was pissed. His cock twitched and his forehead and back itched like maybe his horns and wings wanted to come out and play, but those sensations paled in comparison to the heat in his gut. It felt…shit, it just felt like _power_ , and he clutched at it like he would the grip of his beautiful ivory-inlaid Colt 1911. This was a weapon, one he suspected the succubitch had no idea he had. The power felt heavy in his belly, pulsing and aching to be unleashed. He wondered briefly if that was what Sammy’s freaky demon powers felt like. It felt… _eager_. Like it wanted to be used. “You don’t own me. Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve ganked nastier freaks than you on my worst day.”  
  
She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Dean. You do amuse. You honestly have no idea who I am yet, do you? Don’t worry though, you wi—“  
  
Dean didn’t give her a chance to finish monologuing; he just hurled the energy at her with all the force of his anger behind it. Mara’s shocked expression right before she vanished was almost enough to put a grin on his face. That’d teach her. No one fucked with Dean Winchester in his own head.  
  
With Mara gone, the itching in his forehead and shoulder blades eased, and his arousal ebbed to more normal levels. But he was still lucid dreaming, caught inside his own subconscious. Now that he was aware of his surroundings, he found that they altered themselves around his mood and desires. He wondered if, like Mara, he could also enter the dreams of other people. He hoped not. He never wanted to end up trapped inside someone else’s head ever again, especially without their permission.  Shit, that case last year with the dream root was something he could live a hundred lifetimes without repeating. Dean had enough twisted shit in his own mind to deal with, and speaking from past experience, he was his own worst enemy here.  
  
Speaking of twisted, the hotel room was bleeding as dark memories crept to the forefront of his thoughts. Thick crimson rivulets streamed down the wood-paneled/wallpapered/painted walls, pooling on the beige/green/orange carpeting. The blood brought up memories of Hell that Dean tried desperately and often without success to keep buried. He dreamed of his time downstairs pretty much every time he closed his eyes, why should his lucid dreams be any different? Rusty meat hooks with bits of flesh still skewered on them dropped down, dangling from the ceiling, just as he had dangled in the Pit. He could almost hear the screams of the damned echoing in his ears, screams that he had induced. Screams that he had _enjoyed_. Shit. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to hear—  
  
“Why?” whispered a voice piteous voice.  It belonged to a blonde haired child, maybe ten years old.  Well her body was ten, but the look in her eyes…she had suffered an eternity here already, and yet she still questioned the why of it? 

 

“Ah Dean, my prized pupil,” wheezed a voice behind is right shoulder. Dean spun, recognizing the timbre immediately. The demon looked just as he had right before Sam had snuffed him from existence. He was a constant fixture in Dean’s nightmares; why should that change now that he was aware he was dreaming?  
  
“You aren’t here, Alastair. You’re dead. Sammy snuffed your ass out of existence. You are _nothing_ to me.” But he smelled the fear and sweat and waste of those suffering around him. He tasted their pain. He heard the demon’s voice, just as he heard it echoing in his thoughts every night. Dean forced himself to deny everything his senses told him. He knew this wasn’t real, and yet he couldn’t quite purge the smell shed-blood iron and the black-despair taste of those he’d tortured on the rack. They were thick on his tongue all the same.  
  
“Dean, Dean, Dean…I can’t be killed. I live inside you, Grasshopper. I _made_ you. I twisted you into my sharp little instrument and you did my bidding so well. You started the apocalypse for me. Your daddy would be so disappointed in you. The great John Winchester, the man who wouldn’t break. The one who got away. But don’t worry, I still have you, Dean. Make no mistake about that. And you could never disappoint me.”  Alastair reached out his hand to stroke Dean’s cheek in a gesture that could have been that of a proud father.  
  
 _No!_ The force of Dean’s mental negation threw him from his dreams and back into the waking world. He looked around, not recognizing his surroundings for long seconds. Then he remembered Buffy. This was her house. Alastair was still dead and he wasn’t in Hell…well, not literally, anyway. The situation he was trapped in though….  
  
He had been turned into a mara, a creature that caused uncontrollable arousal and fed on sex. Said uncontrollable arousal had forced his little brother to have sex with him. Also, he was pretty sure that being what he was would forever prevent him from having a normal relationship with another person again (way more so than being a hunter ever had) and there was no cure. To top it all off, the skank who made him this way had just made it clear she wanted him back for something. So yeah, pretty damn hellish. He had escaped Hell before, albeit with angelic assistance. Maybe those dicks with wings would come through again and deus ex machina him out of his current situation.  
  
There was no way he was getting back to sleep after that bout of nightmares. Dean sighed and reached over to where he’d set one of Buffy’s reference books. He might as well get some more research time in while he was focused. Anything to distract him and stave off memories of Hell.  
  
\---  
  
Buffy stared at the amulet perched atop the romance book on her nightstand. If it had eyes it would be staring her down, and winning. She had been locked in a debate with herself for the past hour or so. She knew she should put it on and keep it on at all times, at least until the situation with Dean could be resolved. Logic was one thing though, and feelings were something else altogether. Buffy had a strong premonition that if she went to sleep without the shielding of the amulet, she would dream of Dean again. If she were completely honest with herself, she _wanted_ to dream of Dean again, wanted to know what it would have been like between them if he hadn’t stopped himself tonight. Men could be such idiots sometimes.  
  
Idly, her fingers crawled down her taut stomach to the damp thatch of curls between her legs. _God_ , she groaned. She was so wet. He’d gotten her all hot and bothered and had just walked _away_ from her when she knew he wanted it just as much. She hoped he got blue balls. She hoped he was still sore and regretting his decision in the morning. She hoped he changed his mind and came upstairs and… _no_! That would be bad news for all parties involved. So whatever, but she wasn’t wearing the amulet tonight.  
  
She traced the edges of her clit, shuddering slightly at the shockingly pleasurable sensation. Her legs widened of their own accord, allowing her dancing fingers easier access to her most sensitive area. Buffy languidly stroked herself as she slipped the index and middle fingers of her other hand up her sopping pussy. She pumped them slowly, taking her time. She couldn’t help but imagine it was Dean’s cock instead. It had been a long time since she’d last taken someone to bed. Based on just the way he kissed, the elder Winchester would make one hell of a good lover.  Yeah, she’d told him before that he couldn’t handle her, but now she was almost afraid the situation was reversed.  
  
Buffy could almost feel Dean’s mouth on her breast, licking and gently nibbling first one nipple, then its twin. Her breathing roughened, and she increased her pace. She wondered how Dean kissed when he fucked. Was he tender, like before? Or would he lose all control when he thrust inside her, when she milked him for all he was worth? Would he bite? Mark up her body and claim her for his own? Sooner or later, she was pretty sure she’d find out.  
  
She was close now, her nimble fingers working her body into a frenzied state. Every time a finger grazed her button tremors coursed through her muscles. Buffy’s legs were spread wide, her hips canted upwards. Her nipples were hard spikes capable of cutting diamond. She added a third finger to the pair still pistoning inside her, biting down on a cry of pleasure.  
  
 _Close, so close, so close_. It was a mantra in her head. All she could think about was chasing her orgasm, and the man she wished was giving it to her. Buffy imagined how Dean would look when he came. His eyes would light up the room with their amber-green glow. Would he finally seem at peace afterward, if only for a few moments? She envisioned him with a pair of spiraled horns, like the book described the mara. The thought of Dean looking like that, a marble god with shining eyes, set her off. Buffy convulsed around her fingers, riding out her orgasm as long as possible. She came harder than she had in years, and collapsed on the bed in a boneless heap when the last wave finally subsided.  
  
 _God_. That had been incredible. Buffy remembered again what she had told her houseguest only a few days ago. _Trust me Dean, I’m more than you can handle right now_. Yeah well, she was about ready to put her earlier assumption to the test. She would just have to find a way to get him to capitulate. He’d seemed really freaked out earlier, when he’d pulled away from her after she had stiffened in his arms. She couldn’t help her reaction then, but he hadn’t known to stay away from her neck. At least she had finally admitted her herself that she wanted the elder Winchester. She just had to find a way to do it safely. Slayer-strength might protect her from his energy-draining capabilities, and even though Dean’s feeding had knocked Sam out for several hours, the younger Winchester had recovered completely. Still, Buffy thought that it would be best not to put it to the test, at least until they had a better handle on the situation.  
  
Buffy sighed. It was something to think about another time. That damn amulet was still glaring at her, and she could almost hear Giles’s voice in her head, admonishing her in his upper-crust British tones.  “Oh, fine,” she grumbled, and lifted the damn thing over her head. Surprisingly the weight of it around her neck was almost comforting. The fact that she still wanted Dean in her bed…well, she would just have to wait and see how that played out.


	13. Chapter 13

Several days passed largely without incident.  Giles had handed out protective amulets to everyone who might come in contact with Dean.  Tomes were read and re-read in the search for any tiny detail that might have been overlooked.  Xander and Willow visited whenever they had time, both to help with the research and to keep spirits high.  Xander especially seemed to have a developing friendship with Dean, who was able to throw off his depression for a while as they knocked back a few beers.

 

Atherton had called from England the day before last, confirming the delivery of Dean’s blood sample, but they had only just begun analyzing it and had no answers at the moment.  Dean’s unnatural hunger seemed to have subsided—for the moment at least—and his dreams remained undisturbed by unwelcome visitors, though things between he and Sam and Buffy were tense with words that remained unspoken.  His eyes would follow her though, whenever he thought she wasn’t looking, but whenever she turned to him as if to speak, Dean immediately lowered his head into a book and returned to sulking.

 

Sam, for his part, saw the way Buffy kept stealing glances at his brother.  Something was going on between the two them, but the very fact that Dean seemed to bury his nose even deeper in a book every time she walked past assured Sam that nothing had happened yet.  It also meant that whatever Dean felt for her, it was more than simple attraction.  Not that he faulted his brother; the Slayer was a powerful, beautiful, amazing person.  Hell, if he couldn’t sense that his brother was head-over-heels for her, Sam would have tried to pursue her for himself.  But if there were a soul mate out there for everyone, Buffy would be it for Dean.  Her strength, her attitude, her experiences…they both had so much in common.  They were so damn willing to sacrifice everything for their families.  Then again wasn’t that what he was doing in pursuing Lilith?  In drinking demon blood?  Maybe he wasn’t sacrificing his life, like Dean did when he made the deal to bring him back, but Sam could feel some of his humanity trickle away with every gulp of the tainted crimson fluid.

 

Sam sighed.  It had to be done.  He’d resigned himself to his fate months ago.  Some things were just too evil to be allowed continued existence, and he was the only one in a position to stop her.  Any other hunter, even one as good as him and Dean, would be kibble in the few seconds it took Lilith to say “Do you want to play a game?”  He chafed at the familial bonds that kept him here, tethered to Dean’s fate.  The chains of family were beginning to rub him raw.  He loved his brother, even more strongly now that Sam had him back from Hell, but he just wanted this ended.  He wanted to avenge his brother, his family, himself.  He wanted to retire before he was old and grey.  He just…wanted.

 

He glanced down at his phone, sitting almost accusingly on the table in front of him.  It had buzzed just moments ago, alerting him to a text message from Ruby.  _I’m here, baby_.  Sam hadn’t replied yet, but the craving was strong within him.  His powers were still weakened from...before, and though the darkness of her blood was a living thing inside of him that Sam could feel it growing with every drop, his path was already decided.

 

He picked up the phone.

 

\--- 

 

 

The cool air swirled inside, caressing Dean’s cheek with some unexplainable promise from the dusking world, and drawing his attention to the front door.  Dean watched Sam leave, closing the door quietly behind him as if hoping no one would notice.  He grunted.  He’d known the peace between them was too good to last.  It looked like Sammy was up to his old routine again, but this time he couldn’t even wait for his brother to go to sleep first before running off with his demon whore.  Well, whatever.  His kid brother was an adult.  He was entitled to make his own decisions, even if they were freaking terrible ones.  It wasn’t like Dean was the pinnacle of good decision making these days, either.

 

“Dean?” called Buffy from the bottom of the stairs.  She’d heard the door open and close, and had come down to investigate.  Dean was sitting on the sofa, fuming.  Buffy was again assaulted, as she was every time she looked at him, by his masculine beauty.  He was too perfect to be human; he’d been re-formed into an ideal physical specimen, and she was far from immune.  It didn’t hurt that within that polished marble chest beat a heart as big as any she’d known, that sacrificed everything over and over again, and always would.

 

Dean breathed out, not quite a sigh, and turned to look at the Slayer standing on the steps.  He’d known she was there even before she spoke, his nostrils flaring with the scent of spice that was uniquely her own.  He would know Buffy anywhere, could find her in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve.  Could trace her shape in the darkness of his mind and feel her touch in the empty caverns of his heart.

 

Buffy noticed his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, as if he was trying to prevent himself from reaching out to her.  She’d been giving him his space, and to be honest she was still pissed that he’d walked away from her before.  She couldn’t fathom how he could deny the connection between them, how he could doubt, how he could _deny_ it.  But she couldn’t ignore his obvious distress.  Something had upset him deeply, if she were any judge.

 

“All right, spill,” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

 

“What’s to say?” Dean shrugged.

 

“Younger siblings can be such a pain, right?”  Buffy practically leapt from the staircase and bounded over to sit astride…err, beside Dean.

 

“Dude,” agreed the elder Winchester.

 

“I remember when Dawn was going through her rebellious phase just when I needed to protect her the most…it’s so frustrating when we can’t safeguard them from themselves.”

 

Dean nodded grumpily.

 

“So what’s the what?” she asked, waiting patiently for his answer.  She curled her legs under her and turned so that she was facing him.

 

He glared at her.  Dean Winchester did not do chick-flick moments, and he knew the warning signs.  But he felt so at ease around her that he almost let his guard drop.  If Dad was still alive, Dean was sure he’d have gotten a serious lecture about that kind of negligence.  Dad wasn’t around though, and neither was Sam.  His little brother was slipping away again, their newfound closeness only an illusion.  Dean was feeling more alone than he had in a long time, so why not reach out to someone who seemed to give a shit about him?

 

“Before we came here…well, for a while now, ever since I became a hellhound’s chew-toy, Sam’s been sneaking around with a demon, doing who knows what.”

 

“Ah, the complicated girlfriend,” Buffy acknowledged.

 

Dean gave her a questioning look but continued on.  “He thinks I don’t know when he leaves or where he’s going, but I do.  And just now…it’s like he doesn’t even care that I know anymore.  He just left in broad daylight without a word to me.  She’s trouble, Buffy.  I can feel it in my gut.”

 

“This probably won’t make you feel any better, but Sam knows.  He’s dealing with his own problems, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to burden you with them, especially now with what you’re going through.  He feels helpless.  Just…try to be there for him, because he’ll need you when he figures it out.”  The ringing on the phone interrupted whatever else she had been about to say, and Dean didn’t know if he was relieved or not for the conversation to be over.  “I’ll get it!” she called, jumping up from the sofa and picking up the receiver.  “Hello?” she answered.  “Giles! It’s for you!”

 

Dean’s acute hearing could pick up the response from the other end of the line.  “Stay on the line please, Ms. Summers, this call concerns your houseguest.”

 

“Hello?  This is Rupert Giles.”

 

“Ah, Rupert, it’s William.  I’ve had a chance to do a thorough investigation of the blood sample you sent me.  It’s really quite remarkable.  The white blood cells were initially perfect in their operation; they destroyed everything from common bacteria to HIV.  Unfortunately, after approximately a week, they’ve deteriorated considerably with no known cause.  The obviously require a different kind of sustenance than mammalian cells, which makes sense considering how succubi feed.  But now we have a biological link to their dietary needs!”

 

Dean could figure out what that meant easily enough.  He would need to feed again, and probably soon if they couldn’t get his condition reversed.  He sighed unhappily and Buffy raised a finger to his lips to shush him.  He rolled his eyes but complied.

 

“Very interesting findings, William, but have you made any progress in finding a cure?”

 

“Unfortunately, no.  Nothing we’ve tried in the realm of science or magic has been successful in transforming the blood cells back to human.  We’ve been unable to find a way to keep the cells alive with conventional means as well.  I’m afraid to say we’re all stumped here.”

 

“So there’s nothing you can do for him?” inquired Buffy.

 

“We will keep trying, certainly, but I’m not sure there is anything that can be done for him.  I am sorry.”

 

Well, that wasn’t what Dean wanted to hear, not at fucking all.  Frustration coming to a boiling point, he angrily stormed off to the guest bedroom and slammed the door behind him.  The room he was originally barricaded in…maybe they should have left him there to rot.  No cure.  No hope.  Maybe he could still get Buffy to put him out of his misery.

 

He heard a knock on the door, and with just a whiff of her spicy scent on the air, he knew it was Buffy.  She’d been getting dangerously close to him, and he’d allowed it.  How could he have been so stupid?  He’d allowed himself to be seduced by her tough but caring nature, and forgotten that he was a monster.  Dean had hoped that maybe after he’d been cured, after he and Sam stopped Lilith…but realistically he’d always known deep down that there would always be something keeping him on the job.  After all of that, there would always be a new _after_.  And now he had a gut instinct that he’d never be normal, never be _human_ again.

 

“You might as well come in,” he said gruffly, and the Slayer opened the door and stood silently, watching him.  Dean could feel her gaze with the same force as he felt the presence of the amulet around her neck.  She said nothing, simply watching him until he broke the silence.  “Look, as soon as Sam gets his ass back here, we’ll get out of your hair.  You don’t need our shit in your life.  Hell, you’ve been through more than enough already.”

 

“Dean, don’t be an idiot.”

 

“I’m not an idiot,” he growled, eyes flashing.  “Look, I know I can’t ask you or Sam to….”  Dean shook his head, unable to give voice to what he feared might be a necessity.  “I’m going to get myself as far away from human civilization as I can.  If I get hungry again…” he stopped, taking a deep breath.  “ _When_ I get hungry again…I could end up killing somebody, Buffy.  I can’t allow that to happen.  My whole life has been about _saving_ people.”

 

“You’re safest here,” she said firmly.  She walked into the room and took a seat next to him on the bed, placing a hand on his thigh.  “We’ve all got protection from your lure, and we’re still the best hope you’ve got to beat this.  Unless you have another idea, something that we might have missed?”

 

Dean bowed his head, the warmth of her skin on his body flooding his enhanced senses.  He wracked his brain until he remembered his conversation with Cas.  “Maybe.  Remember how I told you about how I got out of Hell?”

 

“Angels?”

 

He nodded.  “One angel, specifically.  Castiel.  He visited me here…man, was that seriously a week ago?  Anyway, he was being all cryptic and angely, but he basically said that I wasn’t supposed to be this…what I am.  That they need me for something, so who knows, maybe they can fix this somehow.  I don’t know.  Cas hasn’t been back, but he’s probably busy with the whole preventing Lucifer from breaking out of Hell thing.”

 

“Well, it’s a possibility.  Do you have any way of reaching him?”

 

He looked at her in askance.  “You know, I love the way I can talk to you about this stuff, and you just accept it no questions asked.  I guess…” he grimaced, “I could pray.”

 

Buffy smiled, feeling the same way about the hunter.  It was hard to share anything more than superficial with someone who hadn’t been through the same kinds of things she had, who didn’t know about the monsters that went bump in the night.  Or the things that went bump in the afternoon, for that matter; not all demons were restricted to darkness.  “I guess it’s something you could try.”

 

“Man, I feel so stupid doing this,” Dean complained.  “Hey Cas, if you can hear me I could kind of use your help right now, so get your feathery ass down here.  Please, man…I got no other option here.”

 

Unsurprisingly, there was no rush of wings, no unseen breeze that disturbed the air.  Castiel hadn’t answered him.  Yeah, well, whatever, it’s not like Dean had been banking on it or anything.  His head dropped almost against his will into his hands.  He started when he felt arms around him.  It was still so uncommon a feeling that it caught him off guard and made him respond in kind.  Maybe that was why the hunger flared up so rapidly in his belly.  Buffy’s scent was intoxicating, her nearness irresistible.

 

Buffy’s amulet warmed against her throat just before Dean turned suddenly phosphorescent amber eyes to her.  Eyes, Buffy thought, filled with so much pain, and so much need.  She didn’t feel the press of his allure, but she wasn’t immune to the emotion in that gaze.  Nor to the surge of arousal she felt when his black spiraling horns began to poke through his perfect marble-like flesh in response to her caress.  Maybe she was a little bit twisted, but she’d always gotten at least a little bit turned on when Angel or Spike had gone game face in the bedroom.  She’d told herself to wait, and she had, but they still didn’t have a handle on his situation.  She didn’t know if what she was about to do was completely safe, but she found that she no longer cared.  She needed him, and he needed her.

 

“Dean,” she breathed, not to stop him but to encourage his touch.  The room filled with the smells of spring, warm sun and growing things.

 

He shook her off with the last of his will.  “No,” he protested, pushing her away.  He couldn’t do this to her.  Hell, he didn’t want to have to feed off of anyone, but he didn’t know if his new instincts would allow that.

 

“You won’t hurt me,” Buffy argued.  “Slayer strength, remember?  Let me help you.”

 

She sounded so sure, but Dean wasn’t convinced.  He held himself back from going to her with all the will he could muster, breathing heavily from the strain and desire, both.  But then she touched him again, just the lightest of caresses against the material covering his eager cock, but so intimately and with such caring and longing that he lost the shredded remnants of his control.  She wanted him, and the hunger twisting his gut allowed Dean no more room for refusal.  He gave himself over to the beast within.

 

With no warning, Dean grasped the Slayer around the waist and tossed her onto the middle of the bed, following her down to sit astride her legs.  He grinned wickedly at her as he removed his worn, grey, too-tight t-shirt, revealing a large expanse of luminously pale skin complete with pecs and abs chiseled from marble.

 

“Too many clothes,” he growled, and began extricating Buffy’s lean frame from her black knit sweater.  She helped as best she could while at the same time nipping gently at his exposed skin.  “You’re so fucking hot,” he said, taking the opportunity to stare at her creamy breasts, even encased as they were in a satiny black bra.  She squirmed against him, already impossibly turned on and desperate for a little friction.  Her hands found the fastening of his jeans and yanked the button open with one easy motion.

 

“You should probably take these off,” she murmured, caressing the fabric outlining his throbbing cock.

 

“God, I think you’re trying to kill me,” he responded, but did as she bid, rolling off of her to yank his pants and boxers down.  Buffy seized the opportunity to put him on his back, leaning down to kiss him with a whisper-soft brush of her lips.  Her jeans rubbed against Dean’s cock as she rocked against him, the roughness of the material only increasing his arousal.  He deepened their kiss, capturing her mouth with his own and driving his tongue deep inside.  Her hand fisted in his short hair as she met his tongue with equal vigor.

 

Dean worked at the fastening of Buffy’s pants, gaining access with an easy twist and tug of the zipper.  His fingers sought her wetness and she moaned into his mouth.  Her black satin panties were soaked through with her desire.  Purely male satisfaction filled him, knowing he was able to do that to her.  The darker part of him wondered what else he could do to her.  Could he make her beg?  Make her crawl?  Buffy reached down and grabbed his dick and that dark voice inside him went silent.  Dean could think only of fucking his Slayer.

 

She stroked him with slow, steady motions, her hand slick from her own saliva.  Dean threw his head back in a silent scream at how good she felt.  His fingers toyed with her clit, gently circling her little nub.  Buffy sped up the motion of her hips, needing more contact.  “Come on, Dean,” she encouraged.  She was so close, but the hunter was keeping her orgasm just out of reach, as if he could sense her impending climax.  Perhaps he could.  “Not yet,” he replied firmly.

 

Dean removed his hand from her sopping pussy to push down her pants.  Buffy took the hint and paused briefly in her ministrations to remove them, as well as her ruined panties.  Damn, she’d really liked that set.  While she was doing that, Dean released the fastening of her bra with one practiced motion and slid it from her shoulders.  Both completely naked, both completely aroused, they regarded each other silently.  Dean was a specimen of male perfection, his body muscled, his cock hard.  His eyes glowed with an amber light that flared when they met her gaze.  She traced the tip of one small, sharp black horn, making Dean’s dick twitch. 

 

Buffy smirked, slowly lowering herself down, impaling herself on his cock.  She almost came right then and there.  He was large inside of her; she felt so incredibly full of Dean she wanted to burst.  “Move,” he ordered, voice broken with need.  She was only too eager to comply, sheathing herself over and over, viciously chasing her orgasm.  She was so strong, her body leanly muscled but still belying the power that resided within her.  Power Dean could feel clenching around his dick every time he entered her.  He wondered how a mortal man could ever have been able to keep up with her.

 

Dean moved his hands to her slim waist, softly directing the motion of her hips.  “You feel incredible,” he told her.  “I’m close.”

 

“I’m on the pill,” she replied.  Her inner muscles clenched around him and he almost lost it right then and there.  “Goddamn,” the hunter exclaimed.  Buffy smirked in response.  She caressed each tight nipple, smiling even bigger when Dean bit his lip, reveling in her power to turn him on.  Her hands slid down her body, one grasping his wrist and the other seeking the wet folds around her clit.

 

She rode him hard, ignoring the pace his hands were trying to set, fingering herself furiously as she got closer and closer to a mind-blowing orgasm.  Buffy couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt it coming on this strongly.  Too long.  Way, way, _way_ too long.

 

Dean’s speeding heartbeat synced with Buffy’s, rocketing them both toward some unknown precipice.  When they came, seconds later, they came together.  Buffy’s climax dwarfed any other that had come before it, her energy flowing into the man lying beneath her, building and building until she thought she might go mad from the pleasure.  Finally, _finally_ , she collapsed bonelessly into her lover’s arms.  She had never been so exhausted, so sated.  Buffy never wanted to move from her position, curled gently against Dean’s body.

 

“ _Fuck_.  Amazing.  Buffy, you’re so fucking amazing,” he whispered.  Her only reply was a soft murmur as she adjusted her position.

 

His body vibrated with energy, and it wasn’t just the afterglow of really great sex.  He’d fed.  On Buffy.  He hadn’t meant to, damn it.  He hadn’t wanted to!  She was too good for him to use her that way.  Dean looked down at Buffy’s prone, naked body curled trustingly against him, disgusted by his actions, with how their first time actually went down.  He’d wanted Buffy, of course.  He had from the first time he’d seen her, mindless with need.  But now…it was more than that, way more.  He was being to think that maybe…maybe he _loved_ her.  Shit.  He had to get out of there.  He needed some air.  Needed…something.

 

The hunter carefully extricated himself from the Slayer’s delicate limbs and dressed as quietly as he could manage.   He fled the house and wandered into the darkness that had fallen, aimless, focusing only on placing one foot in front of the other.  The fog had rolled in at some point, Dean noted.  It curled almost playfully around his ankles as he moved without intention.  And look at how well that worked out for him last time.  His feet had taken him right into _her_ clutches.  What had he been thinking?  Now he was alone in an unfamiliar city and Dean knew that _she_ was just waiting to get him out in the open again, to come right to her.  Something in him was a part of her, and couldn’t help but gravitate toward her given the opportunity. 

 

Something perked his senses and Dean looked up from his feet, suddenly alert.  His eyes scanned the night but saw nothing but the thick fog at first.  Eddies formed in the mist, _something_ disturbing the stillness of the night, and suddenly Mara stood before him, with only a few feet separating them, looking like a wet dream and his spent cock perked right back up again despite himself.

 

“Hello, you naughty boy.  I finally caught up with you, Tiger.  You’ll come with me now,” she said, so sure of herself, her tone harboring no room for dissent.  The succubus closed the gap between them and though Dean _wanted_ to move, he found he was anchored in place.  She reached out and touched his cheek and where her skin made contact with his, it burned.  It set him aflame.  Dean hadn’t felt like this since those desperate days before his transformation, _needing_ without end, unable to assuage the desires she instilled in him.  She poured her power into her creation, force-feeding him her tainted power, making him stronger.  Making him hungrier.  Making him _hers_. 

 

She led him away into the night.


	14. Chapter 14

It was well after dark when Sam returned to Buffy’s house, high on Ruby’s blood. His veins were thrumming with energy; he felt powerful again, so powerful. Flush with vigor and vitality. Unstoppable.

 

Buffy and Giles were in the family room when he entered. “Where _were_ you?” asked Buffy, unable to stop her tone from slipping towards accusatory.

 

“I—“ Sam began, before Buffy waved him into silence.

 

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s _gone_. He just _left_ and I haven’t been able to reach him on his cell phone.”

 

Sam’s mouth gaped.

 

“You can clearly see the situation this puts us in, Sam,” said Giles, imploringly. “He cannot be allowed to roam in the general populous in his condition.”

 

“I’ll call him. Maybe he’s just taking a walk to blow off some steam or something. He does that. Sometimes.”

 

It sounded to Buffy more like Sam was trying to reassure himself than either one of them.

 

Sam hit the speed dial for Dean’s cell, not believing his brother could be so stupid, but like Buffy, only got his voice mail. Sam swore, somehow knowing that Dean had managed to get himself into the kind of trouble that he couldn’t talk his way out of, something that he wasn’t _strong enough_ to get himself out of. That was okay, that was fine; Sam was strong enough now to face anything, though it would’ve been nice if his brother wasn’t such a burden all the time. However, Sam knew he couldn’t track his brother down on his own, not in the time frame needed.

 

Sam looked up at the Slayer. “Is it okay if I invite a friend into your house?” he asked Buffy. She cocked her head to the side in question, but acquiesced. Sam called Ruby, and got through immediately. It was nice to have someone dependable in his life.

 

“What’s up?” she asked.

 

“I need your help finding Dean, Ruby. Can you come here?”

 

“Of course, Sammy,” she replied in a honeyed voice. “I’ll be right there.”

 

Buffy fixed them some tea while they waited, which Sam accepted gratefully. Once Ruby arrived, he explained the situation with Dean, and asked for her help in finding him. “You’ve tracked him before, Ruby. Can you do it again?”

 

She smiled down at him beneficently. “Yes, but I’ll need a map in order to perform the scrying spell,” she said, looking up at Giles and Buffy.

 

“I’ll print one off the computer for you,” said Buffy. She returned a minute later with the map and handed it to the dark haired woman. Something seemed off about her, but Buffy couldn’t tell quite what it was.

 

Ruby laid the map on the table and began chanting quietly. She pulled a matchbook from her back pocket, struck a match, and lit the edge of the paper on fire. The flames consumed the map, but not the table or anything else. Suddenly Ruby’s eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “Out,” commanded Ruby, and the fire died instantly, leaving a small unburnt section of the paper. It placed Dean only a few miles from Buffy’s house.

 

Ruby turned to Sam, her eyes wild. “He’s not alone, Sam… _Nahemah_ ,” she whispered. “I can’t stay, I can’t…I _can’t_ ,” she says, fear making her voice tremble, backing away slowly before turning and bolting out the door.

 

Sam met the eyes of the very confused Buffy and Giles. Sam shrugged. The name sounded familiar…something he’s read, maybe? “Hold, on,” he said holding up a finger, suddenly having a twinge of memory. He raced over to a stack of books, looking for one particular volume. He read aloud “’The mare-witches, also known as the mara, worship the fallen angel Nahemah.’” Sam knew that Ruby was terrified of angels, so it made sense that she fled. But at least now they had Dean’s location.

 

“So…” began Buffy. “Do we pack for angel or demon?”

 

Sam smiled. He really liked the Slayer.

 

“Both,” he replied.

 

Giles nodded in agreement.

 

Buffy and Sam quickly gathered what anti-angel weaponry they could and set out to rescue Sam’s brother from a goddess.

 

\---

 

The vacant factory seemed completely uninhabited when they scouted it, windows broken and totally dark, but this was where Ruby said Dean would be, and it wasn’t like her to be wrong about that kind of thing. She’d been a witch, and Sam trusted that she knew her spells. He and Buffy decided to go in carefully, each watching the other’s back. It wasn’t as comfortable as hunting with Dean, but it was close. Sam trusted the Slayer, trusted that she was strong enough to take care of herself and that she cared enough about him to save his ass if he needed her to. It wasn’t the thirty years of reciprocal ass-saving he had with his brother, but it felt comfortable between them, and as juiced up as he felt, Sam was glad he didn’t have to confront Nahemah alone.

 

Sam gestured toward the door at the far side of the building. Buffy nodded. That was where they would enter, and if all went well, escape with Dean. They moved silently, black clothing blending into the darkness. The building seemed equally lightless on the inside as they moved from room to room. They made their way stealthily through the factory, until they saw a dim light. It emanated what had to be a throne room, as anachronistic as it seemed. It left them nearly speechless. In the middle of a dusty, dingy, used-up building there was an oasis of opulence. An enormous golden throne dominated the room, and upon it sat a woman, beautiful and terrible at once. She had perfect milky white skin, lustrous hazelnut-brown hair, and glowing golden eyes. Her bat-like wings were the color of darkest ebony, and a matching crown of horns encircled her skull, reaching upwards two feet in length.

 

Sam glanced at Buffy, who was crouched low beside the entrance. They’d planned this. Sam would enter first, and Buffy would get the drop on the fallen angel while she was distracted.

 

Sam stood tall and walked toward the throne. “You must be Nahemah. You’ve taken what doesn’t belong to you,” Sam accused, his voice loud in the silence, confident. Anger trumped any fear he might have otherwise felt. Perhaps recklessly so, but if Dean could belong to anyone, it would be to _him_ ; Sam was wise enough to know that his brother could never be ruled. Not without Dean’s permission, not permanently.

 

She laughed, looking like a carefree angel upon her gilded throne, relaxed and languid. “I like you, Samael,” she replied, “you’ve got spunk. But you’re wrong, of course. Your brother does belong to me…just as I belong to you.”

 

He cocked his head in confusion. “What?” he asked.

 

The mara queen on her throne smiled, her lips blood red, as if they were begging to be kissed. “’Samael…the angel of darkness, the great transgressor.’ I am destined to be yours, once you ascend to your Kingdom. And when I am yours, your brother will be yours as well.”

 

“Satan. You’re saying that I’m _Satan_ ,” said Sam incredulously.

 

Nahemah laughed derisively. “Lucifer has nothing on you, Samael. You’re what comes after the Devil, and leads all of Hell into a new golden age.”

 

This was not going according to plan. “I didn’t come here to debate theology. I. Want. My. Brother.”

 

“Yes, I know just how much you want your brother,” she replied slyly. “Come to me, pet,” she said, beckoning to a figure in the shadows that Sam hadn’t seen before, and still couldn’t quite make out in the dim light.

 

The shadows peeled away as Dean crawled forward on hands and knees, and the amulet heated against Sam's skin. As his brother drew nearer the heat turned painful, until Sam could feel tiny rivulets of melting clay running down his chest. When Dean reached Nahemah’s throne, he stood, naked beside her, allowing her to caress his muscular body.

Sam's mouth dropped open and his knees collapsed under him. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see that Buffy had lost control of her legs as well and knelt, her breaths coming hard and fast. He couldn’t blame her. Dean was... _magnificent_ , but there was no recognition in his brother’s eyes. He might be little more than an animal now, reduced by raw need to his most basic instincts, but whatever Nahemah had done to his brother had rendered him frighteningly exquisite. A crown of ebony horns adorned Dean's forehead and his jet-black wings were spread wide behind him.

 

He (who _was_ he? Couldn’t remember, couldn’t _think_ ) scented flesh. It wasn’t flesh like his Lady’s flesh, which was hard and magical and made him lose pieces of himself. This new scent felt familiar and welcome and home, but he didn’t recognize it. He ( _She_ called him Pet, Tiger, and ordered him to lap at Her like a kitten at milk) unfurled his wings to fully take in the aroma with all of his senses. Tiger purred at the sight of the man who knelt before his Lady. He hoped She would allow him to share in the pleasure of feeding from him.

 

Something tugged in his chest, a wrenching soreness as if something precious had been ripped away. But that made no sense. His Lady provided all he needed. But Tiger couldn’t help the diamond-like tears glittering in the corners of his eyes, any more than he could explain them. His Goddess took care of him, and he wanted for nothing. He fed only from Her, and had grown powerful. Sometimes it bothered him that he couldn’t remember anything before Her, but She helped him forget. He thought he’d been content, but gazing upon Nahemah’s visitor made him long for more than Her. He folded his wings about himself protectively, hoping She hadn’t overheard his thoughts. His amber eyes lifted to Hers briefly, but She was intent on her guest.

 

“You see?” she asked, a note of cruelty in Her voice. “He is _my_ creature now, Samael. If you would only come to me, be my husband as your destiny foretells, I would gift him to you. I would begrudge you nothing. Only come to me, rule with me. Together we can bring Hell and Earth to their knees.”

 

“Dean! Dean! What have you done to him?” The kneeling man practically vibrated with power, but even that power was nothing compared to the force of his rage. Dean? The…name…sounded familiar. His name? But his Lady called him Tiger, and so Tiger he’d become, and Tiger he was, her adoring pet. If She wanted to give him to this giant of a man, he would obey. Gladly. His cock hardened at the thought of it.

 

“I turned him, took him, bent him to my will. He put up quite a fight…at first. I taught him to obey, and guess what, Samael? He _likes_ it.” She gestured him over with a look, and he took his place, kneeling at Her feet.

 

Sam tried a different tactic. He stood, tearing his eyes away from his brother and trying to ignore the rush of blood to his cock. At his full height he still didn’t reach eye-level with the fallen angel on her throne, but he bluffed confidence really well after all these years. “Ruby told me about you, Nahemah. She said you’re a pathetic excuse for a fallen angel; you couldn’t rule in Hell on your own merits so you ran away with your tail between your legs the first chance you got.”

 

The mother of the mara hissed at him though fanged teeth, eyes sparking golden embers. “And what would that witch-whore know of ruling Hell? She _serves_ , even now. Don’t ever doubt that, Samael. I would serve _you_ , if you would but take up your rightful mantle and claim your throne.”

 

“Why does she keep calling me that?”

 

“Because it’s your name,” explained Nahemah with infinite patience, as if speaking to a small child, but a beloved one nonetheless. “’And so it shall come to pass that Samael the boy-king shall be born, in blood and fire, and the four sisters shall be as wives to him, and they shall reign in Hell and judge the wicked forever, world without end.’

 

“Do I really have to keep quoting scripture to you, child? I am the second you have met, Samael. The second of four sisters, but Lilith turned against us. She waits for Lucifer’s return, the foolish girl. The first demon ever made and she weakly wishes for her lover’s freedom instead of embracing _your_ rule. But the three of us, my sisters Agrat and Eisheth and I? We have been awaiting your birth for millennia.”

 

“It’s _Sam_ ,” gritted out the young giant between clenched teeth. “Not Samael, not Sammy. Just Sam. I thought that whole “boy-king” bullshit was Azazel’s thing, anyway?”

 

A flash of yellow eyes shot through Tiger’s vision at the mention of that name. _Sam_. Had he known it before his Lady had found him? Yellow eyes…Yellow-eyes… _demon_. He remembered demons. He used to fight them…before. He recalled that there _was_ a before, but nothing distinctive beyond that. He had… _hunted_ demons. But his Goddess was not a demon.

 

His Lady sneered at her guest—at Sam. “Azazel was a fool. His endgame would have destroyed this world. I suppose I should thank you for eliminating him for me. A marvelous weapon, that gun.” She looked pointedly at Sam. “Such a pity you lost it. I’d heard rumors that it could kill anything.” She reclined on her throne, fingers winding in his hair, as if secure in the knowledge that Sam could not harm her. She was playing with him, Tiger realized. He didn’t like that. He had an undeniable need to protect Sam. It made no sense to him. Nahemah was his Queen, his Goddess, his everything. When he had known nothing, She had given him light, life, and pleasure nearly unbearable. She had made him powerful and raised him up to kneel at Her side.

 

The big man rolled his eyes and began mumbling beneath his breath, never looking away from the Lady. Tiger caught a few words, but couldn’t quite understand their context. It was obvious the man was praying, though. “Castiel…we…help…now. Nahemah’s…brainwashed or something. Thanks…uh…amen, I guess.” Tiger snorted. As if anyone or anything could brainwash his Goddess, even Castiel, whoever that was.

 

His Lady rose gracefully from Her throne, brushing him gently aside but allowing him to nuzzle at Her as She passed. She strode toward where the giant knelt and lifted him so that his feet were barely touching the ground. Tiger gaped at Her magnificence. “Do you think prayer will shield you? Foolish Samael, only I can do that. I would be your armor, your sword, whatever you need of me my love, if only you would be who you were born to be.”

 

Something caught his attention. A blonde woman whose presence made Tiger’s stomach do uncomfortable things shifted slightly in the doorway. His Lady’s attention was fixed on the man, and the blonde, seeing an opening, moved to attack, a red-bladed weapon clenched in her tiny fingers. Tiger yelled out a warning just as a blast of power sent the smaller woman flying into the wall at the opposite end of the building. He wasn’t quite sure in that moment which of them he had been trying to warn.

 

Sam’s eyes followed Buffy’s trajectory, making sure she was okay but wasting no more time than that before lashing out with his own power. _Wonder how she’d like a taste of her own medicine_ , Sam thought. The power thick in his veins, as thick as Ruby’s dark blood, surged from him, knocking Nahemah away from him with all the force of his will. “Buffy, get Dean!”

 

The Slayer took advantage of the mara-queen’s dazed bewilderment and raced for the elder Winchester, hoping to quickly snatch him away from the bitch and the full scale battle that she could sense was about to ensue. He seemed to be in no condition to help them fight.

 

Tiger marveled at the feeling of the blonde’s (Buffy’s?) touch. Her skin was soft and comforting and so unlike that of his Lady, and he felt his body respond. She lifted him gently, as if he weighed nothing, and carried him to the entrance to the throne room. “Dean! You need to pray for Cas,” yelled Sam as he fought to hold Nahemah in place, bright red blood running sluggishly from his left nostril. Tiger had another flash of memory: “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” Cas…Castiel…an angel of the Lord. He remembered Castiel. Cas would help them. Softly, almost silently, and without knowing quite _why_ , Tiger prayed for the angel’s presence.

 

“Stay here,” said Buffy, and he allowed himself to get lost in her green eyes. He thought he might have nodded, before watching her stride over to reclaim her weapon. She gripped the end like an axe and assaulted his Goddess. He wanted to stop her. He wanted to help her. He wanted to fuck her.

 

He heard a noise beside him like feathers ruffling, distracting him from the battle between the two strangers and his Lady. “Dean…what has become of you?” a voice asked. He recognized that voice. And that name again…that must have been his name, before he’d met Nahemah. Maybe…maybe he could be Dean again. “I thought I would be able to handle this alone. I’d hoped…but I see now that is no longer possible. I must call on Raphael,” said Castiel quietly to himself. In the background, metal clanged against metal as the Slayer’s weapon met his Goddess’s black angel blade.

 

The noise ceased when Buffy broke off of the fight against his Lady, but Sam was pinning Her to the wall, allowing the tiny blonde to rush over to them. “You must be the angel,” she said. Castiel nodded. “Good, Sam needs help. My Scythe was designed to kill Old Ones, not fallen angels.”

 

Castiel watched as Nahemah began to rise from where Sam was pinning her, her black blade hungering to taste flesh. Blood was streaming down the man’s face, and he knew the boy would not be able to hold her much longer. “Nahemah,” he called, getting her attention, her golden eyes locking with his. “Stop this fool’s errand, or I shall be forced to call upon my superiors. You would not enjoy your fate, suffering final destruction at the hands of an archangel. Dean is important to Heaven, we have plans for him.”

 

“I see.” She hesitated, head cocked to the side, considering. Castiel did not think she would press the issue, at least not at the present time. She was exhausted from fighting Sam’s telekinesis and wounded from the Scythe. “I suppose that discretion is the better part of valor. I swear by Samael’s future Kingdom that I will retreat…for now.”

 

“Restore Dean,” demanded Castiel.

 

She smiled beneficently. “No,” she answered. “You hold no power over me, angel. He will remain as he is—my pet.” The mara queen locked eyes with Sam. “You can scrub and scrub and never wash my touch from him, Samael. This is my gift to you. I have faith that one day you will return to me. In the meantime….” She shifted her gaze to Dean and gestured, smiling wide.

 

Dean doubled over from the tortuous need that slammed into him. He groaned and sank to his knees. Sam noticed that his amulet, already partially melted, was liquefying rapidly. He glanced over at Buffy and saw the same phenomenon occurring with hers. Not good. Nahemah must have enhanced Dean’s lure to cover her escape. A flutter of wings confirmed Sam’s hypothesis. Nahemah had fled.

 

“Get Dean to safety. I will return with Raphael, a healer, once I ensure Nahemah is truly gone,”

 

Sam heard the second rush of wings, but didn’t look up to see Cas depart. His attention was all for his brother. The elder Winchester was kneeling, breathing heavily with his arms wrapped around his abdomen. His amber eyes were throwing out sparks, and Sam could tell that Dean’s control was about to shatter. In seconds, he wouldn’t be able to control his power or his hunger, and the clay that bound their protective amulets would melt away completely. They’d been a burning presence at Buffy and Sam’s throats ever since Dean entered their presence, and once they were gone they would be left unprotected against the raw power of Dean’s desire.


End file.
